


Most Precious

by surreysmum



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bondage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surreysmum/pseuds/surreysmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a young man, Aragorn is sent on a mission to retrieve lost treasures, and meets the Mirkwood Prince in the hands of a terrible and implacable enemy. Warning for a bit of Legolas-torture (and a bit of Aragorn-torture too, come to think of it).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Most Precious  
Author: surreysmum  
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn (Aragorn as Thorongil)  
Rating: R to NC-17 eventually; PG for most of it.   
Disclaimer: the astonishingly fertile world of Middle Earth was created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I merely grow a few little weeds in it, without view to profit.  
A/N: This story takes place around the year 2960 in the Third Age - that is, almost sixty years before the major events of the War of the Ring. Aragorn spent several decades under the name of Thorongil in the service of Thengel King of Rohan and then Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. This story is set early in that period.

 **Most Precious**

 _… to my dear doting heart  
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel._  
Shakespeare; Sonnet #131.

 

Thengel, King of Rohan, stood upon his battlements and gazed unseeing across the rocky hills surrounding Edoras. His fingers twisted and turned where they met behind his back. Thengel King was most uneasy of mind this evening. He turned sharply at the sound of booted feet.

"Your pardon for disturbing you, my Lord King," said the hooded traveller.

"Nay, Thorongil," said the King with a smile of welcome. "Right glad am I to see you returned safely from your errand. Had you success?"

"Merely some town bully-boys, as we expected, my Lord," replied Thorongil, pushing back his hood as he spoke. "They will trouble the farmers no more - a glimpse of real steel and the name of the King reduced them to blubbering in no time flat."

The King clapped him on the shoulder. "I'd venture the name of Thorongil carries no little weight of its own these days." Thorongil bowed gravely at the compliment. His bearded face was that of a still young man, but of serious mien. Some there were who called him grim and mistrusted him greatly for the rarity of his laughter. But Thengel King had in two short years grown to like and trust this Thorongil, this Eagle of the Star.

They spoke in Sindarin, as was their usual custom while alone, the Elvish language giving them some safety from prying ears. Indeed, Thengel rarely spoke his native Rohirric, having grown up in exile in Gondor, where he learned both Westron and Sindarin. Thorongil proved to be equally fluent in all three, although Thengel sometimes speculated that he seemed most comfortable in the language of the Elves. It was just another mystery in the background of the silent young man, who never vouchsafed a word about who he was or where he came from, other than to confirm what was already obvious from his attire: that he was a Ranger of the North. He wore a star as clasp to his cloak, the sign of his particular company amongst the hardy Dunedain. Thengel wondered whether he had a trace of the old royal line of Gondor and Arnor in his veins - it was said that many of them did.

Now he turned a troubled gaze on the younger man. "I have something I must show you," he said, and led the way into the fortress. He stopped in the antechamber of the Throne Room. Thorongil stood at a respectful distance as the King unlocked a cabinet and brought out a large and highly elaborate key, then addressed that key to the huge lock of the richly decorated box which sat bolted to furniture and wall in the corner of the room. Lifting the topmost false lid, the King then drew out the tiny key which he always wore around his neck, and opened the box proper. Reaching inside, he pulled out the glittering contents, and asked Thorongil brusquely, "What is this that I hold in my hand?"

Thorongil frowned at the odd question. "It is your crown, my Lord. The crown of the kings of Rohan, passed down through the generations from your ancestor, the great King Eorl the Younger."

"Are you sure about that?" The King proffered the crown, and Thorongil took it hesitantly.

"It is a counterfeit," said the Ranger, startled. Indistinguishable from the real crown on the outside, the inside bore all the signs of hasty and recent workmanship. Though he had not handled the crown before, Thorongil knew it would have been carefully finished by its original maker, and worn smooth by generations of monarchs since.

"Aye," said the King grimly, "I had it made three days ago under conditions of greatest secrecy."

"The real crown… ?"

"Has been stolen," confirmed the King. "By what means, I cannot tell. The box was intact and fully locked, inside and out, when I found it empty last Saturday morn. The key has never left my neck. Either the deed was accomplished by a lockpick of extraordinary skill, or we are dealing with something supernatural."

"Was no stranger seen?"

"None inside the fortress," replied the king. "But we have several reports of a mysterious black-clad rider in a black helm, his features invisible, galloping northward upon a magnificent coal-black steed that flew like the wind." He gave a wry smile. "My people, of course, noticed the horse far better than the rider. They say its eyes gleamed red in the moonlight, an illusion perhaps." He replaced the false crown in the box, and locked it carefully away, then sat wearily down. Thorongil remained standing respectfully before him.

"That same black horse and rider were seen riding north from Minas Tirith ten days ago when the White Staff of the Steward was stolen," he went on, taking grim pleasure in the look of shock that passed over Thorongil's usually imperturbable features. "I have had a secret letter from Ecthelion, the Steward, this morning. But not only that, I am hearing rumours that other, most precious, objects have also been stolen from other realms."

"You wish me to ride north, my Lord," concluded Thorongil.

"I do not expect the impossible, Thorongil," replied Thengel. "And if I had the faintest inkling of who this dastardly thief might be, I would send you with a troop of armed men. Find me some information, some clue as to where to send that force, if you can, and I will be more than grateful." He smiled. "Remember you are not an army, young friend."

Thorongil nodded. "I will be swift and inconspicuous, my Lord."

"Take Brego. He too is swift and inconspicuous."

Thorongil was gratified at this great favour. Though far from the highest-bred or most beautiful steed in Thengel's famous stables, Brego was one of the king's favourites. In addition to his speed, he was even more intelligent and loyal than his stablemates.

"I am honoured, my Lord," said Thorongil.

Before the sun was fully risen the next day, the Ranger was many miles north of Edoras.

Upon an impulse, Thorongil set off to the north-east towards Mirkwood with the idea of trying to gather information at Thranduil's court. Though not known for travelling outside his own borders, there was little that occurred in northern realms that was unknown to the Woodland King, the Ranger wagered.

It would be a long journey over much barren land. To ride directly north to the Golden Wood might seem the wiser course, for there Galadriel, powerful Lady of Lorien, might be persuaded to peer into her mirror, famed in Elvish lore, and perchance give him the knowledge he sought. But Thorongil had his own reasons, barely acknowledged even to himself, for avoiding the Golden Wood.

Brego needed no spur. Swiftly they flew across the land, hilly and pathless though it was, making their way to the nearest crossing of the mighty Anduin. A journey that might have taken an ordinary traveller several days was accomplished by nightfall. They stopped just short of the river in a dry and tree-sheltered hollow, and, once relieved of saddle and saddle-bags, Brego wandered off a slight way to satisfy his appetite on a nearby patch of long grass, while Thorongil swallowed his coarse travel rations, hardly noticing their taste.

The sagacious horse soon returned to his master and lay down accommodatingly so the man could rest comfortably against his flank. Thorongil gazed up at the stars dotting the clear sky, lost in thought. Anon he spoke aloud, whimsically.

"Have you a favourite mare, Brego, whose company you would rather be keeping than mine?"

The horse nickered softly, almost as if he understood and were laughing.

Thorongil's face split in a broad grin. "Aye, I'm with ye there, horse. We have a lot of galloping and adventuring to do, you and I, before we can bear to live tamely in a stable and be put to stud." He frowned at himself half-heartedly for the irreverence of the comparison, then shrugged. The Lady upon whom his heart was set was so unreachable, so truly beyond both his grasp and his deserving, that such nonsense did not come close to touching her fair image. He laid down his head and slept.

The next morn found Thorongil, astride Brego once more, surveying the swift-flowing and swollen Anduin with a worried brow. This stretch was usually safe to swim across, albeit a little strenuous at times, but Thorongil was not at all sure that was the case today. Brego, however, started to wade impatiently in. Thorongil made to pull him up, then changed his mind. The horse knew his own powers. Instead the man pulled the saddlebags up around his own neck, to spare them the worst of the water, and gave Brego his head. The horse struck powerfully out into the current.

Nigh on an hour later and a few miles closer to the Falls of Rauros, they reached the further bank. Thorongil hauled himself ashore at once, threw the saddlebags aside, and carefully assisted his trembling steed ashore, murmuring soft words of praise and gratitude. As he was rummaging in the bags for means of making Brego more comfortable, a piping voice said, "A fine horse indeed."

Thorongil's sword was out before the sentence was finished.

"Now, now, take care good sir, I meant no harm," babbled the short and unattractive being before him.

Thorongil sheathed his sword. The little man (for man he was, not hobbit or dwarf) was obviously no threat, except perhaps to the contents of the saddlebags, where his sly and covetous glance kept straying. "What would you with me?" asked Thorongil brusquely, turning his attention back to Brego and the extra cloak he was using for the nonce as a horse blanket to soak up the extra water and warm the animal a little.

"Naught, naught at all," said the man. "I was but curious - we get few visitors in these parts. I am Maglint, a trader."

 _Petty thief, and quite likely a smuggler up and down the river_ , supplied Thorongil's suspicious thoughts.

"And yourself?" pursued Maglint, when Thorongil failed to respond in kind.

"Thorongil. A Ranger."

"A Dúnadan. I thought so! You are right welcome here, Ranger!"

Thorongil doubted it. He and Maglint's kind were natural enemies. He clicked to Brego and started to walk him around in a small circle, wanting the horse to be dryer before he started to curry the mud from his legs. Maglint stood in the centre of the circle, shifting in place rather ludicrously as he followed them around. "That is a choice silver star you wear on your cloak, Thorongil."

"Aye," said the Ranger. "It is not for sale."

"Nay, I never supposed it," replied Maglint, his eyes following the sparkle of the clasp.

They both fell silent for a long while. At length, Thorongil rested Brego and cleaned him up as best he could, then turned his attention to his own rather soggy person. When he pulled out his dry - or rather, drier - pair of breeches from the saddlebag, and Maglint made no move to leave, Thorongil shrugged, turned his back, neatly stripped his lower half bare, and reclothed himself. When he turned back, Maglint had his eyes turned away in embarrassment, but continued to stand his ground.

Thorongil sighed. "What do you want of me, Maglint?"

Maglint's eyes flicked sideways towards the river. "Nothing in particular, good sir; it is lonely around here and good to have company," he said, with an oily attempt at charm that was positively blood-curdling.

Thorongil began to suspect that it was his absence that was actually desired - that there was a boat-load of goods waiting just out of sight on the river that he was on no account to be allowed to see. As if to confirm his suspicion, Maglint looked again, more nervously, in the direction of the river. Well, there was one way of confirming it. Thorongil drew out his pipe and his weed pouch. "Will you join me in a smoke?" he offered.

"You have pipeweed?" The eagerness and then sudden indecision in Maglint's face was comical. "Ah well, mebbe - mebbe just a quick puff." He pulled out of his jacket pocket a pipe that had seen better days, and not much use lately. They sat with their backs to a pair of trees, and once the pipe-bowls were packed, Thorongil courteously supplied the spark from a quick glance of his hunting knife off his sword.

"Have there been many strangers passing this way lately?" he enquired.

"Nay, nothing out of the ordinary," replied Maglint. "Barring yourself, of course. But the one you'd want to ask about that would be my cousin Halvman. He keeps practically the only wayfarer's stop between here and the Running River. It's north-northeast of here, just west of a high mountain that spouts fume, a long day's ride. In fact, if you left now, you could probably reach it before nightfall with that fine horse of yours."

Thorongil smiled quietly to himself around his pipe. Suspicion confirmed. He was half tempted to linger and put paid to the smugglers' plans. But he had a quest to fulfil. "I do not often travel through the Dry Lands," he said aloud. It was the truth; he had not used this route before. "Are the wells well-marked?"

"Wells? There are precious few of those. You will need to carry much water." Maglint jumped to his feet and rummaged in some pack he had hidden amongst the bushes. "Here, I have some extra waterskins, large ones. Pray accept them. A gift."

Thorongil shook his head, and pulled a silver piece from his pouch. "I am a great believer in honest commerce, my friend," he said significantly. Maglint accepted the silver piece with laughable eagerness and retreated.

It took but a few moments to fill the skins and saddle Brego. Thorongil heaved a great sigh of pleasure and relief as they settled into their gallop and the wind of the dry plains began to whistle through his streaming hair and Brego's mane. Humankind could leave a bitter, dirty taste in your mouth, and other races, particularly the Elven ones, were simply perplexing. But this - swallowing up the miles in the thunder of a fine horse's hooves, with a straight path and a clear and righteous purpose - this was what he was born for. Here he could leave behind all the falsehoods and pretence and doubts that had been forced upon him by his unwished-for birthright. Here, with the breath going deep into his lungs, the sun squinting his eyes, and the grit stinging him sharply, honestly, in the face as they went ever faster - here he was not silent, moody Thorongil, nor indeed little, loved, tolerated, inferior Estel, human fosterling in an Elven house. Here he was Aragorn.

 _tbc_   
[My ficlist is here.](http://surreysmum.livejournal.com/101295.html)


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Most Precious   
Author: surreysmum   
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn (Aragorn as Thorongil)   
Rating: R to NC-17 eventually; PG for most of it. Edits will be made as appropriate for the posting site.   
Disclaimer: the astonishingly fertile world of Middle Earth was created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I merely grow a few little weeds in it, without view to profit.   
A/N: This story takes place around the year 2960 in the Third Age - that is, almost sixty years before the major events of the War of the Ring. Aragorn spent several decades under the name of Thorongil in the service of Thengel King of Rohan and then Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. This story is set early in that period.

 _… to my dear doting heart  
Thou art the fairest and most precius jewel._   
Shakespeare; Sonnet #131.

 

 **Part 2**

Dusk had already overtaken the sky by the time Thorongil arrived at the lonesome hut and stable that passed for an inn in the midst of the Dry Lands. Thorongil shivered: they had been riding north all day, and the weather had grown markedly cooler as they progressed. If the stable were at least tolerable, it would be good for Brego to have some shelter from the wind.

The stable turned out to be tolerable, but Thorongil was not apt to be so complimentary about the only guestroom in Halvman's lonely establishment. He spent the evening instead in the innkeeper's parlour, where at least there was a fire. After clearing away the remnants of a rudimentary meal, Halvman pulled out a bottle and asked, "Care for some company?"

Knowing full well he would be paying for what both of them consumed, Thorongil consented. Halvman was as short and unappealing as his cousin, his most prominent feature a crooked tooth that forced it way past chapped lips and lay against his sallow face even when his misshapen mouth was at rest.

Thorongil brought out his pipeweed, which was once again greeted with enthusiasm. A heavy rain began to beat down around the inn, and Thorongil had a quick moment of gratitude that he and his horse were under roof this evening.

"Does it often rain like that in the Dry Lands?" he asked his host, surprised.

"Aye, in season. We had a cracker of a storm just two nights ago as well."

Thorongil allowed his puzzlement to show. "The water does not stay," explained the innkeeper. "It floods, overflows the old channels, and then sinks away into the ground. Nothing grows here."

"Why stay, then?"

Halvman shrugged and gave an off-centre smile. "Business is business," he said. "And we have not been much troubled with uncanny travellers since that sorcerer, or wizard, or whatever he was, was cleared out of South Mirkwood." He drew a quick breath, as if conscious of having said too much.

Thorongil noted it and let it pass for now. He knew well of the expulsion of Sauron from Dol Guldur some twenty years before.

"So, you'll be in pursuit of someone, then," said Halvman, abruptly changing the subject.

"Why would you think that?" Thorongil's tone was mild.

"You are Dúnedan," was the reply, as if that explained everything.

"Do you seek to know my business, innkeeper?" Now there was a glint of steel in the words. Thorongil had discovered that a pretence of affront often provoked interesting revelations.

"Only if it affects mine, and that of my kin," said Halvman hastily, his earthenware mug clinking against his tooth as he took an agitated gulp. "Any other business you are more than welcome to keep to yourself, Ranger!" The man seemed genuinely fearful, far more than Thorongil's tone warranted.

Thorongil pressed his advantage. "I am thinking perhaps you have had an _uncanny_ visitor lately - perhaps in that storm two nights ago?"

"Clink," went the goblet again as Halvman took another hasty gulp. "Nay, nay sir - no such thing. There was no-one staying here that night."

Thorongil leaned back in his chair and pulled out his hunting knife, idly running his fingers up and down the blade. "Are you quite sure?"

Halvman put down his goblet and started to push nervously back from the table. Thorongil slammed his knife into the boards, point down, and Halvman stopped dead.

"Perhaps you should tell me what I want to know," suggested Thorongil, oh so quietly.

This time Halvman's goblet clattered so loudly that he put it down again instead of drinking. "It is worth my life, kind sir," he pleaded. Thorongil simply raised his eyebrows.

"He did not stay here, not in the Inn," said the man quickly. "I did not lie. He spent the whole night in the stables shoeing that ill-favoured beast of his, and making the very stink of Mordor as he did."

"I saw no forge there," said Thorongil.

"I know not how he did it, and I care less," exclaimed Halvman. "He used the stable, he shoed his horse, and he gave me gold to hold my peace." He took a long nervous swallow of his drink.

"What like of man was he?" Thorongil's fingers were idling with the handle of his knife where it stood fixed.

"I never saw his face, I swear it, Sir," babbled the innkeeper. "It was dark, he would not come in, and he was all in black armour. His voice" - he shuddered - "his voice was but a whisper, inhuman."

"Was there any device upon his armour or his horse's trappings?" demanded Thorongil.

"None, sir, I assure you. Only black - everything black except the beast's glaring eyes."

Thorongil nodded slowly. "Was he carrying any goods?"

Halvman nodded in reply. "He had two large woven bags, sir, both of harsh black cloth. They hung heavily on the horse's back."

"And did you look inside?" asked Thorongil with deceptive gentleness.

Halvman went suddenly white. "Nay, Sir. Nay I did not."

Thorongil considered him for a long moment. "But you tried to," he said at last.

Halvman nodded again and swallowed hard.

"What did he do to you, man?" and this time there was almost a tinge of sympathy in the Ranger's voice.

Halvman's fingers played restlessly round the handles of his goblet. "He struck me blind, sir," he replied in a low voice. "He let me weep and plead for an hour - or two, I know not. Eventually he roared at me to be quiet and stop being such an infernal nuisance - and then restored my sight as easily as he had taken it, as if it meant nothing to him either way."

"Nothing else?"

"Nay, sir."

"You were fortunate." Thorongil pulled his knife free and sheathed it. "I am but a poor Ranger and cannot compete with gold," he said wryly, "but I would advise you most earnestly never to speak of this matter to anyone else." And he pushed a generous pile of silver across the table to the trembling innkeeper, who gathered it up and left the room with all speed.

******

When at length the fire died down, Thorongil retired to his room, perching on the windowsill to breathe the rain-fresh air and avoid the dubious linen on the bed.

Though it had been so many hundreds of years since they had been seen that the Nazgûl were popularly held to be nothing more than legend, Thorongil was now almost certain that his quarry was one of those dark-spirited former Kings of Men. It might even be the Witch-King himself, who had dwelt in the far northern kingdom of Angmar until he was driven forth in the wars of centuries before. Thorongil shivered. If ever the Numenoreans had a hereditary enemy, it was that same Witch King. Though not immortal, his twisted magical powers were said to be great, and a prophecy was recorded of him that he would never die at the hand of a man.

Restlessly, Thorongil slid out the window to visit Brego in the stable. The moon shone fitfully through the slats of the walls, giving him enough light to find his way to the only occupied stall. Brego whickered in welcome.

"How fare ye then, horse?" asked Thorongil quietly. Brego bumped him peaceably with his muzzle and graciously accepted scratches above his eye ridges. "We must be up betimes tomorrow," the man went on. "Our enemy travels best in the dark, but we have the advantage in daylight." Brego shifted his head so the Ranger's strong fingers found a particularly good spot behind his left ear. "Know you what we pursue, I wonder, you clever one?"

Brego shifted and kicked a little where he stood, and his hoof clanged against something hard.

"What have you there?" the Ranger murmured. He bent into the stall and retrieved a cast shoe, holding it up to the patchy light. "Not yours," he said in relief, then, examining it more closely, he shuddered and flung it hastily to the opposite corner of the stable. The thing was black as the night itself, and without sign of either nails or holes. It looked as though it had been melded by some foul fire to the very hoof of the horse that bore it. "Now I am sure we seek one of the Black Riders," he told Brego very softly. "And we are but two days behind. Sleep, my good, my fine, my clever beast, for tomorrow we fly like the wind to warn Thranduil and his court. May the Valar grant we arrive there first."

For a full day and then through the following night they galloped up the long eastern border of the ancient Mirkwood forest. There was nothing to the west but the eerie, angry silence of the spider-infested trees. To the east, Thorongil knew, the dwellings of the men of the Dale were beginning to spread out again now that the malign dragon Smaug had been driven from the Lonely Mountain and destroyed. But Thorongil no longer wished to linger and speak with the Dale merchants, nor with the dwarves of Lonely Mountain, though he had planned to do both. No, his sights were firmly set on the Elven court, no doubt a source of much tempting royal jewellery. And if this Black Rider could be confronted upon his arrival there, where there were many good fighters, perhaps his inexplicable and ominous treasure-hunt could be halted in its tracks.

Several hours after dawn broke, Thorongil slowed Brego to a walk as they approached the heavily fortified main gates of Thranduil's halls. A rushing river guarded the entrance, but the drawbridge was completely unguarded, and there was no activity in the outer courtyard. The stables, carefully hidden in the trees to one side, were deserted, though there had clearly been much recent agitation, for tackle was strewn about and the empty stall doors hung open. Thorongil's heart sank.

Hastily making Brego comfortable, and loosening his sword in its sheath, the Ranger strode into the main hall. It echoed the sound of his steps.

"You won't find anyone here," a sulky, silvery voice informed him. Thorongil turned to see a young Elf, no more than 40 years old or so, making an unenthusiastic attempt to sweep away the dirt from the floor, which had, it seemed, seen much horse traffic. "They're all out in the forest, searching. They wouldn't let me go - told me to stay in the rooms where all the women and children are locked up. But I wouldn't!"

"Why are the women and children locked away?"

"His Majesty's command," said the young Elf with morbid glee. "But I _won't_ go and cower with all the babies!"

"Where is the King?" asked Thorongil urgently. "I must speak with him."

"He's through there," said the Elfling, pointing to the small door behind the throne. "But he won't speak to you. He won't speak to anybody!"

Thorongil put a hand on each of the stripling's shoulders. "Women are fanciful creatures, you know, and they worry overmuch," he said with a straight face. "I doubt not that your _naneth_ is suffering greatly at this very moment from fears for your safety. It would be an act of kindness, of nobility, to go to her and assuage her anxieties before you seek to take your place with your peers."

Looking a little stricken at the thought of his mother, the young Elf nodded. "It is a wise and generous course you suggest, good Sir. I will go to her at once."

"Good," replied Thorongil, bravely resisting the temptation to laugh. As he pulled aside the curtain that led to Thranduil's inner sanctum, however, that temptation left him entirely.

"Whoever you are, get out!" Thranduil's back was turned, his shoulders hunched, his voice thick. His mane of golden hair was tangled and rent, and the crown of leaves and berries he wore at this late time of the year lay trampled and crushed upon the stone floor.

"I bring news, Your Majesty - news of a thief." Thranduil's back straightened. He turned, and Thorongil saw that his beautiful face was disfigured with redness and tears.

"Who are you?"

The Ranger made the proper obeisance. "Thorongil, a Ranger in the service of Thengel King of Rohan." He proffered the letter of introduction that Thengel had provided him.

Thranduil barely glanced at it before handing it back.

"Tell me about this thief," he said.

"Many realms have recently suffered the loss of their most precious treasures." The King's face convulsed and he hid his face with his hands. Thorongil stared and wondered: Thranduil was known for his love of precious gems and it was rumoured he had the most splendid collection in Middle Earth - but this grief seemed excessive. "It seems I have arrived too late to warn you," the Ranger went on. "I am sorry if you have been robbed of your gems…"

Thranduil lifted his face from his hands. "Gems?" he asked bitterly. "Aye, Ranger. They have stolen my most treasured gem. My son, my dearest Legolas, has been taken from me!"

Impulsively, Thorongil stepped forward and briefly embraced the suffering King. "I will bring him back for you," he said. "Let me help."

*****  
They sat together for some time afterwards, talking of what little news they had, and as Thorongil spoke of his reasons to believe that the thief was one of the Nazgûl, Thranduil nodded soberly and agreed. Though they did not have true mindspeech, he and Legolas could occasionally sense each other's thoughts in time of crisis, and he had suddenly heard his son cry out in his mind, and seen a brief flash of an armed black-clad figure, at the time when Legolas must have been kidnapped.

"I have sent all my malefolk searching in the woods, hoping that I was wrong - that my son had simply had some accident and needed aid to return to the Halls," he said sadly. "But from what you tell me, I know now that it is the Witch King indeed - surely it could be no other. I recognized him fully in my vision, though I did not wish to acknowledge its truth."

"He has been travelling steadily northwards," agreed the Ranger. "It seems more than likely he is returning to his old haunts at Carn Dûm."

"Or anywhere else in that maze of caves in the mountains that stretch across Angmar," replied Thranduil gloomily. "It is a vile country - deserted, impossible to navigate, and by now covered in feet of snow. I sit here with a skilled and eager army at my command, knowing that it is futile to try to send them in force; I would lose too many of them to the narrow paths, the hidden crevasses, the cold and the exhaustion even if they never found the Witch King!"

"You will not lack for volunteers anyway, I wager," Thorongil said.

Thranduil smiled a slightly watery smile at that. "Indeed not. Legolas is much beloved amongst the soldiers; he is one of their noblest captains."

"You propose then to send in a few scouting parties by stealth? In ones or twos?"

"Aye, that seems best for now."

"Use me too."

Thranduil looked dubious.

"I know that I am merely Human," said Thorongil irritably, "but I am well accustomed to difficult country, and I have the finest horse north of the White Mountains."

"And a spirit to match," replied Thranduil, smiling fully for the first time. "Very well, Thorongil of Rohan. Eat and rest, and join me and my captains in the council-room one hour after sunset. We will make our plans together." And if the ancient Elvenking, who knew the Witch King all too well, added in his thoughts, our hopeless plans, he made sure not to voice the words aloud.

****************

So it was that Thorongil found himself upon an Elven war-barge being rowed upriver through the northern stretches of Mirkwood. His companions were a dozen grim-faced Elven warriors, who looked upon him with suspicious glances and spoke amongst themselves in a rough version of Sindarin that grated harshly upon his ears, accustomed as he was to the smooth court language of Imladris and Lothlorien. It was only when one of the warriors uttered a comment in another, more guttural, language, and then obviously repeated it in Sindarin, that Thorongil realized they were using the more courtly language only as a courtesy to him. Their common tongue must be the ancient Silvan of the Wood-Elves.

Intrigued, Thorongil essayed the few words he knew in Silvan, and asked them to pass the hours of their journey teaching him more. No request could have warmed them to him more quickly, and they competed eagerly to teach him not only their language, but their own soldierly traditions and history. By the time they came to the parting of their ways, each knowing that this perilous task might be their last, they clasped Thorongil's shoulder in fellowship with right good will, and utterly sincere were their blessings and wishes that the favour of the Valar might be with him,

Thorongil started up the long, twisting mountain path that led to the region he had been assigned to explore. Even at the very foot of the mountain, the snow was already past Brego's fetlocks, and it would only get deeper. They would both be grateful before long, he knew, for the extra blankets and clothing that Thranduil had insisted they carry, even though the weight was cumbersome for the seemingly tireless horse.

Many hours later, as the weak sun started to hide itself among the white peaks, Thorongil looked for a place to shelter for the night. The air had grown thin as they climbed; there had been one or two narrow escapes at cliff-edges treacherously shrouded in snow; and both horse and man were exhausted from the crossing of a fast-flowing stream, sharp ice guarding its edges, that emerged furiously from a crevice on the flank of the mountain. With relief, Thorongil led Brego past a small pile of rubble into the opening of a fair-sized cave. There was a loud roaring from the back of the cave, but it was unvarying and the Ranger was not concerned by it, surmising correctly that he was hearing the noise of an underground river. For the moment, he needed only to sit still for a moment. He collapsed, breathing hard, against a wall of the cave. Brego wandered inquisitively deeper within.

At a startled whinny from his horse, Thorongil willed himself to his feet. "Elbereth," he breathed as he came up beside Brego. Before him, spilling over a ledge about 20 feet above his head into a gorge so deep he could not see the bottom, was a vigorous waterfall, a broad and noisy curtain disappearing into the gashed stone at his feet. The gorge was so narrow that the spray of the falling water spattered his face. Beside him, Brego stamped nervously beside him, and he scratched the horse's withers automatically, trying to calm him.

Suddenly a pure, clear voice was raised in song above the noisy monotone of the water, seeming to come from within the fall itself. Thorongil peered amazed into the dimness. It seemed to his unbelieving eyes that there was a pale face, haloed in gold, staring at him through the water, blurred but hopelessly sad, sad like the Elven song that was threatening to make his vision even more blurry. For a few seconds he stood entranced, fingertips outstretched into the cold spray as if to touch the mournful water-spirit.

Pulling himself together, Thorongil cast off his outer fur cloak. "I will return immediately," he said to Brego, then ran along the edge until he spotted a rock at the side of the waterfall that might hold his weight. He leapt across recklessly, only then looking to see whether there was a ledge which ran behind the curtain of water as he suspected. There was indeed, but it was painfully narrow, and it took several perilous minutes of inching along before it suddenly broadened and gave access to a black cave mouth into the very heart of the mountain. The song had stopped, but Thorongil now heard a different sound - the faint clanking of irons.

"Legolas!" he shouted, quickly passing across the mouth of the cave and continuing along the ledge behind the water. "Legolas, are you there?"

"Aye," said a melodic voice, sighing. "Go back - try to save yourself!" But Thorongil could now see the pale gleam of the Elf's nude flesh, pelted relentlessly by the spray of the water before them. Angrily he drew his sword and sundered with a single stroke the cruel iron shackles that bound the Elf's wrists to the stone above his head. Thorongil stretched out a hand, and Legolas trustingly put his own, fine-boned and clammy, into it. The Ranger led him carefully sideways along the ledge.

There was a sudden flare of torchlight from the cave mouth behind them. "How gallant!" hissed the Witch King. "Welcome to my humble abode, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur. Won't you come in?"

 _tbc_   
[My ficlist is here.](http://surreysmum.livejournal.com/101295.html)


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Most Precious  
Author: surreysmum  
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn (Aragorn as Thorongil)  
Rating: R to NC-17 eventually; PG for most of it. Disclaimer: the astonishingly fertile world of Middle Earth was created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I merely grow a few little weeds in it, without view to profit.  
A/N: This story takes place around the year 2960 in the Third Age - that is, almost sixty years before the major events of the War of the Ring. Aragorn spent several decades under the name of Thorongil in the service of Thengel King of Rohan and then Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. This story is set early in that period.

 

 _From Part 2:  
There was a sudden flare of torchlight from the cave mouth behind them. "How gallant!" hissed the Witch King. "Welcome to my humble abode, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur. Won't you come in?"_

 **Part 3**

Aragorn stepped forward into the torchlight. The Witch King, no longer clad in his heavy armour, seemed too solid for a wraith, though he was curiously blurred around the edges. "My name is Thorongil," said Aragorn firmly.

"As you please," replied the King with a ghastly smile. "We all have many names these days. Whichever one you are using, my dear Aragorn, you are a better fly than I had expected to trap in this little spider-web of mine. Is that not so, Elf?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," came a murmur from behind, and Aragorn wondered at the meek tone from one so renowned as a warrior.

"Trapped?" queried Aragorn, reaching for his sword, but no sooner was it free of the scabbard than it flew from his hand, flung by some unseen force into the darkness of a cave to one side.

"Now, now, none of that," chided the Witch King genially, and before Aragorn had time to think, his hunting knife, his quiver and bow, and the secret knife in his boot all suffered a similar fate. Aragorn began to appreciate fully the peril he was in.

"Why would you think me to be Aragorn?" he asked in a more placatory tone.

"Think?" laughed the Witch King, gesturing Aragorn to proceed ahead of him down the long, narrow passage. "Why, my dear boy, you are the very image of Elendil, your esteemed ancestor. I knew you the minute I set eyes on you! Yes, that door - please do enter."

Aragorn walked into a spacious room, brightly lit by torches in sconces. The stone walls were hidden by rich tapestries, and most of the floor was covered in a thick rug, upon which rested several comfortable looking chairs and a large dining table.

The Witch King gestured broadly with one hand and the table was instantly covered in china and white linen. Savoury aromas arose from the dishes. "Sit down and dine with me," invited the King.

Aragorn hesitated.

"It is quite wholesome, I assure you," the King went on with an unpleasant grin.

Aragorn turned instead to where Legolas stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind him and head bowed.

"Ah yes," said the Witch King, following his gaze. " _'Go back! Try to save yourself!_ ' " he mimicked cruelly. And he dealt Legolas a harsh blow across the face.

To Aragorn's horror, Legolas did not attempt to defend himself or retaliate, even though his hands were now free. Instead he murmured meekly, "I beg pardon, my Lord King," his tongue flicking quickly at the blood on his lower lip.

"I am sure you do," said the tyrant. "But you will pay properly for that little disobedience nonetheless. I look forward to our session this evening!"

And Legolas merely dipped his head lower and acknowledged, "Aye, my Lord King."

Aragorn could not forbear a little grimace of contempt. Was this the brave and noble son of Thranduil of whom so many spoke admiringly?

Ever alert, the Witch King caught his expression. "Ah, you are wondering how this Elf, this paragon of a proud race, comes to be so uncommonly docile? Step forward, Legolas, and turn around."

Legolas obeyed, a tinge of pink staining his face. Aragorn repressed his dismay. Every inch of the Elf's back, his shoulders, his neck, even the backs of his arms, were cruelly striped, welted and torn. The backs of his legs, too, were a mass of broken and inflamed flesh from buttocks to ankles. "Now you see why he obeys me," gloated the Witch King, dragging rough fingernails across Legolas' back for the obvious pleasure seeing the Elf wince.

Aragorn drew a harsh breath in sympathy, but still he wondered a little. Others had endured such beatings, for longer, without being so utterly subdued.

"And best of all," continued the Witch King, intensifying his parody of a caress, "is that the First-Born heal so quickly. For three days now, I have had practically a new canvas to work upon each morning." Legolas' head remained bowed and his lips pressed tightly together. "Go, kneel in your place."

Legolas knelt upon the hard stone of the uncovered part of the floor, his back to a large ring in the stone wall above the height of his shoulders. His hands were still clasped obediently behind him, and with a languid gesture the Witch King used his magic to jerk them upwards to the ring and bind them there with a length of rope that lay nearby for the purpose. Aragorn moved instinctively forward when he saw the Elf restrained in such discomfort, but another flick of the Witch King's fingers froze his limbs in place.

"Do not annoy me, Aragorn," warned the dark monarch. "I daresay like all your forebears you were raised by that Imladris prude Elrond, but you will find his notions about honour and nobility avail you naught in this place. You stand here at my pleasure; had I no use for you, you would lie broken at the foot of yonder waterfall this very moment. Pay heed to your own best interests."

Aragorn nodded grim acknowledgment and sensed the bonds of magic ease around him. He took his seat at the table and cast a suspicious eye over the aromatic offerings.

"Well now, that is much better. We must drink, my young friend," declared the Witch King. "It is not often I have another King of Men for a visitor, albeit one only _in potentia._ " He turned his back to the table and one entire wall was suddenly furnished with rack upon rack of wine. "What shall we choose tonight?" mused the monarch with the expansive air of a showman. "These," he added as he fingered some ancient bottles, "are a particularly rare vintage, which I took the opportunity to gather from King Thranduil's cellars a few days ago."

He glanced over his shoulder, but Legolas refused him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The second the Witch King's back was turned again, Aragorn's hand strayed to one of the silver knives upon the table - not so very long or sharp, but with his cruel host's attention diverted, perhaps…

Legolas raised his head and caught Aragorn's eye with a gaze at once fiery and pleading. With a jolt, the Ranger realized that far from being vanquished, the Elf knew what he could endure, and was biding his time for some purpose. With a nod that honoured Legolas' courage as it acquiesced in his silent demand, Aragorn laid the knife aside. And the Ranger's heart was filled with admiration for Thranduil's son and compunction for his earlier misjudgment.

"What about Legolas?" Aragorn blurted.

"What about him?" asked the King, still engrossed in his wine. "Oh, you refer to feeding him? Well surely you know, Aragorn, having lived with Elves, that they do not actually need food or water to survive. I daresay Legolas is hungry and thirsty enough, for he has had nothing since we left Mirkwood, but he will not die of it. And perhaps it will be an inducement for him to abandon his stupid stubbornness and give me what I want." Legolas merely kept his eyes steadily upon the ground.

Having selected his wine at last, the Witch King poured a glass and pushed it towards Aragorn. "Come, my young friend," he urged. "Eat. Drink. You must have journeyed long to get here." Aragorn toyed with a fork. "Come, come now," cajoled the King. "If I were going to kill you, would I not have done so by now? I wish only to converse with you." And he grinned. "One King to another."

Reluctantly, Aragorn speared the most innocuous piece of pastry he could see and swallowed it. It was tasteless, but caused no immediate harm. Deciding it was as well to be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, he set to eating in earnest until his hunger was sated. The wine, however, he merely pretended to sip, for he needed all his wits.

Eventually he paused. "You do not eat, Your Majesty?" he asked.

The Witch King shrugged complacently. "One of the advantages of being merely half-corporeal," he declared. "I no longer have need of the more basic physical pleasures - food, drink… " - he glanced over to the fettered Elf - "and the rest. There are other pleasures to make up for those, not least of which is watching others suffer what one can no longer be forced to suffer oneself. Perhaps someday you will experience this for yourself, Aragorn."

Aragorn fervently hoped not, but he tried to keep it from his face. He changed the subject. "You name me Aragorn, but you give no name to call yourself," he challenged.

The Witch King's eyes narrowed. "'Your Majesty' will be sufficient for now, young man," he responded. "More may be possible when we become peers and allies."

"That is what you want of me? To be your ally?"

"If you achieve what is prophesied of you, certainly. We would be a mighty force together, you in the South and I in the North."

"And what would your Master, Sauron, have to say at that?" Aragorn asked, horror overcoming his prudence.

"Master? Nay, perhaps the world believes him so. Perhaps Sauron himself believes it. But I am no cowering underling, and Sauron has as much reason to be grateful for my good will as I his. We are allies only, he and I. And if I can but convince you how foolish your scruples are, you may well prove a worthy addition to our company, leader of the Dunedain."

Bile rose in Aragorn's throat. "To join with the forces of Darkness? Truly you must think me corrupt indeed."

The Witch King chuckled. "Nay, youngster, I can see you still cling to your wrong-headed ideals. Corrupt you are not. But you are corruptible, Heir of Isildur… oh yes, you are very corruptible. And before you leave this place you will prove that, to me and to any other who wishes to know. Or you will die."

The Ranger was on his feet, pacing, and the Witch King allowed it. "Then kill me now!" exclaimed Aragorn passionately, "for I will have naught to do with you and your schemes." And he was vaguely aware of the Elf's agitated gasp.

But the Witch King merely smiled and said, "Sit down, boy. There will be no killing unless I choose it; and you are still more valuable to me alive than dead, though you may not credit it quite yet."

"Not even to save my life would I take your path!" declared Aragorn.

"I daresay not," drawled the Witch King, rising languidly to his feet. "But has it not occurred to you, impulsive man, that I might be able to offer you even more compelling inducements?" As he spoke he moved to Legolas and seized him by the hair, tilting his face up. "He is a beautiful creature, is he not?" hissed the King. "Admit it now, Aragorn, I have caught you stealing glances at him. He rouses your blood. You wish to mark that fair skin with the grasp of your fingers, draw cries of passion and need from that pale throat, feel him yield beneath your mouth and your manhood."

Aragorn was shaking his head in fervent denial. But it was true. Elbereth help him, it was true. He would not acknowledge it aloud, let alone act upon it, but since the moment he had heard Legolas' golden song he had yearned for him, and every glance at the Elf's perfect body, naked, marred and bound, had only twisted the strings of pity and lust tighter together within him until he could not tell which it was he felt. Aragorn wanted the Elf.

He looked the Witch King in the eye and said steadily, "You are mistaken. I have no interest in him."

"Really." The Witch King's fingers wrapped themselves solidly around Legolas' throat. "What a pity. Well then, he is of little further use to me. Unless, of course, he thinks he is finally ready to give me some _information_." This last was directed in a hiss to the Elf.

Legolas opened his mouth and croaked the word he had just enough air to say. "No."

The Witch King squeezed.

"No! Stop!" cried Aragorn, cursing himself for fifty kinds of fool as soon as he did so.

Slackening his grip with a triumphant smile, the Witch King looked up inquiringly. Legolas gulped air.

"Perhaps I was over-hasty," Aragorn said, controlling himself. "Now that you mention it, his aspect is pleasing enough. And he is delightfully submissive."

"Quite so," said their enemy wryly. With a point of his finger, he released Legolas' bonds. Then he jerked the Elf to his feet and brought him over to where Aragorn sat.

"Look well upon this Man, Elf," he said. "For he is the one who is going to deal you the fate you deserve; the fate you fear most." Legolas paled and his lips thinned. Despite the Witch King's instructions, he could not meet Aragorn's eye. And when the Witch King ran an ominous pair of fingers between the cheeks of his buttocks, he flinched violently away from his tormentor for the first time that evening. It merely earned him another harsh blow.

"Amazing, is it not?" the Witch King asked Aragorn rhetorically. "They live practically forever, these Elves, immune to hunger, thirst, heat, cold, and all but the most grievous wounds. And yet there is this one terrible frailty; this one gaping chink in their armour. Rape them but once, and they fade into death. What might grieve a Man, perhaps make him a little sadder and harder, kills them outright, poor fragile butterflies that they are! You would think their Valar would have had more forethought."

Aragorn's lips twisted in disgust. "I prefer my bed-partners willing," he said curtly.

"You are soft," replied the Witch King contemptuously. "If you are to reign upon this Earth, Aragorn, you must learn to take what you want without qualms. Do this one thing, and I will concede you have promise and spare you. Refuse, and he dies anyway, and so do you."

Aragorn rose to his feet and pretended to survey the Elf, walking around him, looking him up and down, buying time. Time, they needed time. He lifted Legolas' chin, none too gently, and looked into his eyes, but there was nothing to read there. The Elf had withdrawn.

"I will do this," Aragorn told the Witch King, as coldly as he could manage. "But not yet. In his damaged state, he is less than appealing. I want him smooth and soft under me."

This, it seemed, was language the Witch King understood. "Oh yes, indeed," he said, his expression grotesque in its glee. "An event so momentous should not be hurried. Let us give it its due preparation, its befitting ceremonial." He ran a finger down Legolas' cheek. "Let _everyone_ have time to anticipate it properly." It took all of Aragorn's control not to swing out at him in that moment. "What say you, my young friend? Two evenings hence?"

That was as much as he could have hoped for. "Aye, that will do," he replied in confident tones. If the Witch King wished to continue pretending Aragorn had choice in the matter, Aragorn would play the game. The Ranger put a hand on each of Legolas' shoulders, turning him so they were face to face. "By that time, you will have come to know me well, Elf," he said significantly, and added for the Witch King's benefit, "for I want you to know who masters you."

"Aye, my Lord," whispered Legolas, and the tinge of colour was back upon his pale cheekbones. The Witch King looked back and forth between them.

"Enough," he said abruptly. "I have other work to do this evening. And you," he went on, addressing Legolas, "are not exempt from helping me as always, though your too-dainty skin spares you from proper chastisement for the next two days. Believe me, I will not forget any of your transgressions. Now go."

Legolas bowed his head and left the room by a door on the far side.

"Aragorn, my dear boy," said the Witch King, placing a cold arm round the Ranger's shoulder. "It pains me to have to confine you, but a spirited young man like yourself might find himself in trouble if left to roam my little underground palace." As he spoke, he guided the Ranger back out into the long hallway and to another door. He pushed it open, and Aragorn had just enough time to see a bare stone cell before it was transformed in a flourish to a well-appointed bedchamber. "Sleep well, young friend. Oh, and Aragorn… " He held out his hand. "The knife, please."

Aragorn silently handed over the table knife he had secreted, then went to sit on the side of the bed, his head in his hands, his mind racing. In the stories he had heard, the Nazgul struck terror by their very blankness, their black anonymity. But here in his lair, the Witch King had shown himself unexpectedly vain and desirous to impress; surely there was a weakness there that could be exploited somehow? The King's magic was impressive, though, and he used it freely to control even the slightest hint of physical threat. Aragorn shuddered as he recalled the sensation of being immobilized. Was there any limit to that power? Could it be used at a distance? Despite that magic, he seemed to enjoy inflicting pain with his own hands. Could that be used against him?

There was a faint muffled cry from the direction in which Legolas had departed. The Ranger leapt to his feet and went to the door. But though it opened to a slight tug, he found he was blocked by some unseen force from proceeding beyond. Aragorn sighed; he had expected no less. He listened for a few long minutes, but there was no further sound from the darkness beyond. He closed the door quietly and, blowing out his candle, lay upon the bed, where he lay sleepless for several hours.

The sound of a heavy door and a muted clinking of iron roused the Ranger from the uneasy drowse into which he had fallen. Unmoving, he lay and listened, trying to determine from which direction the noises came. After a long period of silence, he rose silently from his bed and opened the door, willing it not to creak. To his astonishment, he was able to pass through.

Heart in his throat, expecting the Witch King's appearance at any moment, Aragorn felt his way down the completely dark corridor. His fingertips found a latch, and he gently eased it open. The door moved, and Aragorn groped his way into the room. The painful sound of harsh breathing reached him.

"Legolas?"

"Be quiet."

It was enough. Aragorn moved carefully towards the voice until his outstretched hands encountered warm flesh. Legolas was upright and his hands, as Aragorn quickly discovered by touch, were in iron manacles above his head.

"By Eru," swore Aragorn under his breath, realizing that the Elf's feet barely grazed the ground. He scrabbled desperately at the manacles but they were well and truly fastened. "Your wrists…"

"He does not wish me to rest too easily," whispered Legolas. "I am so tired, Aragorn…"

The Ranger moved his feet directly next to the Elf's. "Step upon my boots," he said. But it was not enough. Still the Elf was suspended.

"I can lift you for a while," Aragorn breathed in his ear. "You weigh little. Less than a human child." And even as he spoke he slung his arms carefully beneath the Elf's buttocks and lifted, feeling the long legs wrap and lock around his waist with a strength no child had ever possessed. Legolas sighed in relief and drooped, his cheek coming to rest upon the top of Aragorn's head. The intimacy of it troubled and consoled the Man. It was well he had no hands free, for he would not have been able to forbear inflicting caresses upon the trusting, trapped creature in his arms.

"What does he want of you?" he asked in an undertone.

"They are preparing the ground for another war," the Elf replied. Aragorn did not have to ask who "they" were. "He has stolen many objects of authority and power. Their loss will cause dissension and questioning of authority in all parts of Middle Earth. More than that, not a few of the objects have power in themselves." He stopped.

Aragorn broadened his stance slightly, feeling the Elf's weight shift a little in his arms. "There is more," he said, very low. "Why were you forced to sing behind the waterfall?"

"He has been making me help him identify the powers of the objects," said Legolas. "But there are some I cannot tell him about. And some I will not. He hoped that any rescue party sent for me would include older Elves, with more lore. Perhaps even my father himself." He paused and gulped, the idea obviously upsetting to him. Aragorn clutched him a little closer.

"He talks much, and wildly," Legolas went on, in a murmur. "He alludes often to speaking with Sauron, as if they are in frequent communication, and he speaks, too, of things he keeps from Sauron. He has Galadriel's Mirror, Aragorn, and he is obsessed by it. That is one of the things he keeps from his Master."

Aragorn replied quickly and softly, very afraid they would be overheard. "You think he plans to break free from Sauron?"

"Or overthrow him. And he believes Galadriel's Mirror is the key. But it remains silent and shows him nothing."

"And he beats you for it."

"Aye."

"Do you know how to make the Mirror work, Legolas?" The Elf tensed palpably. "I am sorry," said Aragorn quickly. "It was unfair to ask. I have no right to know."

There were a few seconds of uncomfortable silence and then Legolas whispered, as close to the Man's ear as he could reach, "I know more than I tell him, but less than would suffice for his purposes." And the trust implicit in that statement made Aragorn's eyes prickle for a moment.

"We need to find a weakness and escape," muttered the Ranger. "Middle Earth must be warned."

"You must play his game, Aragorn," urged the Elf softly. "You must seem to be falling in with his way of thought. Even if it means… " He paused. "One of us must survive."

"Not at such cost!"

"Shh. Yes, at any cost."

"Your courage…"

"I am a Mirkwood warrior," Legolas said simply. "I must do what is right."

Aragorn could not speak. Instead, he shifted Legolas' weight on to one arm, and brought the other hand up to touch the fair face he could not see. He felt the Elf shift slightly under the caress. Aragorn looked up, and though he saw nothing in that utter blackness, he felt warm breath upon his face.

"You are a kind, noble man, Aragorn," whispered the Elf. "Will you let me kiss you now, before the play-acting begins in earnest?"

Every fibre of his being screamed "yes", and Aragorn knew he would be lost forever if he allowed it. "No, I think that would be unwise," he whispered regretfully.

"I understand." And Legolas quietly rested his cheek against Aragorn's forehead.

They remained like that, in the darkness, a full hour or more. Legolas was but a light burden. Both were able to drowse a little.

"You have started early, I see!" An unwelcome glare of torchlight broke into their cocoon of darkness as the Witch King entered the room. "Put the pretty Elf down, Aragorn. I told you to stay in your bedroom, did I not? It is not time yet."

"I thought perchance I could persuade him to see reason about giving you the information you seek, your Majesty," said Aragorn.

"Of course you did," smirked the Witch King. "Come, away with you!"

Aragorn winced in sympathy as Legolas' feet sought the floor and the his weight was suspended once again from the cruel manacles. The Elf's gaze was directed immovably towards the floor, and Aragorn tried in vain to catch his attention as he reluctantly submitted to the chilling hand upon his shoulder guiding him back to his room.

"I knew you were my kind of lad at heart!" chortled the Witch King, pushing him back through the door. Aragorn sensed rather than saw the magician lay his spell and knew there would be no more wandering.

So passed Aragorn's first day as prisoner of the Witch King.

 _tbc_   
[My ficlist is here.](http://surreysmum.livejournal.com/101295.html)


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Most Precious  
Author: surreysmum  
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn (Aragorn as Thorongil)  
Rating: R to NC-17 eventually; PG for most of it.   
Disclaimer: the astonishingly fertile world of Middle Earth was created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I merely grow a few little weeds in it, without view to profit.  
A/N: This story takes place around the year 2960 in the Third Age - that is, almost sixty years before the major events of the War of the Ring. Aragorn spent several decades under the name of Thorongil in the service of Thengel King of Rohan and then Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. This story is set early in that period.

 **Part 4**

Aragorn woke from a troubled sleep wondering why he had been able to roam and find Legolas the night before. Had the magic barrier been dropped by accident? Had the Witch King deliberately set him free, knowing he would seek out the Elf? But in that case, why had they been allowed to stay together so long, unspeaking and unmoving? Their murmured conversation had ceased long before the Witch King appeared. Had he overheard, and was he hoping to hear more? Perhaps he was merely spying in hopes of a lewd exhibition? But it had been completely black; could he see in such darkness? And the Witch King had not impressed Aragorn as one who would have the patience to wait a full hour merely for the sake of some half-seen groping, when he had arranged for himself a far more spectacular exhibition two evenings hence. It was perplexing, and, the Ranger thought, worth pursuing. If only he could find some way to speak with Legolas alone again.

"Good morning, young man." The Witch King startled him out of his thoughts. "I hope you slept well. So sorry I had to interrupt your fun last night."

Remembering Legolas' words, Aragorn fell in with the Witch King's crude insinuation. "Ah, no doubt I will be afforded more opportunities to play with my toy before I must break it," he said lightly, stretching his back and rubbing his palms along his thighs.

"Indeed," chortled the Witch King. "Indeed. A good way to pass the tedious hours until he is healed to your liking. I feared you would be bored in this dark and gloomy place, my friend. Come, I have already thought of an entertainment for you this morning."

He shepherded Aragorn through the dining room of the night before, and down a chilly corridor.

"Elf!" he barked. "Come out here." Legolas slipped out of one of the doors, closing it swiftly behind him, but Aragorn caught a glimpse of large, flat tables strewn with numerous items, some shining despite the limited light. Ah, so that was the Witch King's treasure room.

"You would not credit it for we are deep in the mountain, but I actually have a little courtyard," the Witch King said pleasantly. He waved a heavy bolt aside and a door creaked open, letting in a burst of cold wind that sent Aragorn's hands clutching for his cloak.

Noticing Legolas' shudder, for the Elf was no more clothed than he had been the day before, the Witch King taunted him. "Alas, poor Elf, are you cold? Never fear, you will be warm enough soon!" Legolas stumbled through the door, obviously shoved by the Witch King's magic. The monarch followed him, and Aragorn was quickly upon their heels, hoping to mitigate whatever torment the tyrant planned to inflict upon his patient victim.

As an escape route, it was worse than hopeless. One quick glance showed the ranger that they stood at the bottom of a natural and narrow cone-shaped break in the mountains. The cliffs rose smooth and sheer all around them, expiring jaggedly hundreds of feet above against a grey sky. It was a wonder any snowflakes found their way down at all, but enough had survived to create a frigid carpet for Legolas' bare feet. Aragorn shivered.

"My apologies, dear boy," fussed the Witch King, bringing forth an extra fur cloak and some blankets. "I am impervious to the cold myself and forgot that you are not." He pulled forward a stone bench, and insisted on arranging a blanket seat and blanket covering for the Ranger before settling the fur cloak around his shoulders. Legolas stood quietly, head down, hands clasped behind him.

"Are you thirsty, Elf?" abruptly demanded the Witch King.

"Aye, my Lord," replied Legolas truthfully.

"You have my permission to draw a bucketful from the well, then, and drink it," said the Witch King. And looking harder at the contraption in the middle of the stone courtyard, Aragorn realized it was indeed a primitive well. Legolas obediently picked up one of the buckets nearby, which appeared to be attached to an inordinate amount of rope, and tossed it down through the well mouth.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow as the clanking of the bucket grew fainter and no splash was to be heard.

"It is a very deep well," the Witch King told him smugly. "This will take some time. I have a mind to return to my little den and leave you to supervise the Elf. But fear not, Aragorn, I will be watching. No untoward behaviour!" He turned to Legolas. "And not one word from you, Elf. Not one. You know the consequences." Legolas nodded submissively, and turned to where the rope had at long last stopped rattling and thumping into the well. He seized it in both hands and began to pull it steadily upwards. The Witch King vanished into his caves.

For a few moments, until he was sure the Witch King was truly gone, Aragorn could do nothing but watch Legolas as he laboured, long, slender muscles playing strongly under the dazzling white skin. The marks upon his back and legs were faded almost to invisibility, but there were fresh abrasions at his wrists and ankles. Aragorn bethought himself of the Witch King's last words to the Elf.

"I know you are chilled," he murmured urgently, "but are you in pain?"

Legolas shook his head slightly, and flashed a warning with his eyes. Aragorn sighed. He wanted very much to talk with the Elf, but he did not wish to bring more pain upon him.

The Elf continued with his task. There was no wheel to assist him in pulling the laden bucket to the surface, so he was compelled to put his back into it, bracing himself for each heave with strong thighs set apart, back and shoulders working, and each deep breath marked by an expansion of his slender torso and a tightening of his washboard abdomen. Upon his chest, the nipples stood defiantly against the cold. Elves did not sweat, as Aragorn well knew, but the exertion tinged Legolas all over with a golden glow. Aragorn watched enthralled, until it occurred to him that he was looking at Legolas exactly as the Witch King would have him look - with the eyes of a lecher. He shook his head in disgust with himself,

At that moment, Legolas finally pulled the heavy bucket from the mouth of the well. He let it fall with a clank to the ground and sank to his knees with a soft, despairing moan. The bucket was filled with nothing but sludge.

Aragorn could bear no more. He rose and approached the kneeling figure. "What, so easily defeated, you weakling?" he taunted for the benefit of listening ears. "Why not use a little of that vaunted Elvish ingenuity? Or must a mere Man show you how?"

He caught up the blankets the Witch King had given him, and threw one of them over the top of one of the spare buckets sitting by. The other he spread upon the ground for his own knees, not incidentally creating thereby a slight cushion for the Elf's as well. Then Aragorn, uttering all the while inane insults about useless and pathetic Elves, poured the sludge carefully atop the blanket as Legolas, upon his instructions, held the fabric taut. It took some time for the liquid to seep through, and as it did, Aragorn risked a brief murmur: _"Need t'talk about midnight powers."_

Legolas glanced up at him and nodded almost imperceptibly, with the barest hint of a smile on his lips. It seemed their thoughts were running in the same direction.

"Well, that won't do," said Aragorn aloud as they lifted the blanket away and surveyed the murky liquid in the bucket. "We need something more finespun through which to strain it." And he threw off the furs and his cloak and stripped off his plain but fine cambric shirt, then fastened the cloak carelessly back across his shoulders again. As he pulled the shirt ready across the mouth of another bucket, he became disconcertingly aware of Legolas' frank stare at his chest.

"It will avail you nothing to screw up your face in disdain, Elf," he said aloud, warningly. "I am a Man, and Men are hairy. When the time comes you will endure my coarse touch whether you like it or not." On an impulse, he seized Legolas' chilly hands and pressed them to his chest under his own warm fingers.

Legolas was now making a proper show of disgust, but Aragorn held him there as long as he dared, giving him warmth as best he could. Eventually, knowing the Witch King's eyes were still upon them, he pushed the Elf's hands away, barking an order to hold the fabric steady as he poured the foul water through his makeshift filter.

It was still far from the pure clear streams of Imladris, but Aragorn congratulated himself that he might actually have turned the Witch King's cruelty into a means to ease the Elf's painful thirst. He started to offer the bucket to the Elf, then paused.

"I will taste first," he said, and brought it to his own lips.

A heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Nay, Aragorn. Do not drink," said the Witch King.

"Why not?" asked Aragorn ingenuously.

"Go indoors, Elf, and set to work. I have permitted you too much laziness today." Legolas bowed silently and withdrew. The Witch King turned back to Aragorn.

"You wanted _him_ to drink it," said the Ranger. "Why not me?"

"For him it would have meant a most unpleasant pain in his guts, nothing more. But it would have killed you. That well has been poisoned many a century." The King took in Aragorn's look of horror and sighed. "You are still too soft, my boy. Remember this test is not of him, but of you. He is disposable, weak, a mere thing to be used on your way to power and riches. Why fuss if he was likely to get a tummy-ache for his trouble?"

Aragorn chose his words carefully, trying to appear as hard-hearted as he could. "Well, I would not want any unpleasant side effects tomorrow evening!" he said. "I am quite fastidious in these matters."

The Witch King fortunately found this funny. "And practical too, I see! Very well, he shall be as smooth and clean as you like when I put him at your mercy. And speaking of that, I fancy letting you play with him a little tonight. For my amusement, naturally. How would you like him? Draped in chains? Suspended upside down? Perhaps writhing on a bed of nails? - oh no, that might damage him too much…"

Aragorn bethought him of what bonds might be easiest to break should they have a chance to escape. "Rope," he said, hoping he would sound sufficiently taken by the idea. "I have always loved the look and the feel of a nice piece of rope."

The Witch King's eyes gleamed unpleasantly. "Rope it shall be, lad. I like your tastes. Now, off with you back to your room." And Aragorn was not-so-gently shoved by magic back into his prison cell.

There he paced back and forth for the rest of the day and evening, trying to apply what little information he had towards an escape plan. Although he was certain that Thengel King's crown was amongst the treasures being catalogued a few doors away, retrieving it was now the least of his worries, and the least of his reasons for needing to slip out of the Witch King's clutches. Sauron's foul plans had to be nipped in the bud. And Legolas - somehow Legolas had to be freed; could it be tonight? Aragorn fretted about what he might be forced to inflict on the courageous Elf, and cursed his own powerlessness, locked away in this room while the Witch King wreaked whatever torment he pleased.

The summons was late, very late, in coming. Indeed, judging by the marks on the candle in his room, it was less than an hour shy of midnight when the door to Aragorn's cell creaked open and the Witch King beckoned him through. "I think you will like this," he said with a gleeful cackle.

It took a few moments for the Ranger's eyes to adjust to the bright light of the candles in the dining room, particularly since many of them swam and swooped through the air leaving brilliant flashes upon the eye and not a little smoke in the throat. Pleased with the effect upon his audience, the Witch King calmed them to their shelves with a few pointed fingers, leaving only one small group of candles circling a tense, motionless figure.

As the smoke cleared, Aragorn's jaw dropped. The candles circled Legolas, of course but Legolas bound - nay decorated - in unimaginable ways.

"You have gone to much trouble," Aragorn managed to force out. Legolas gave a quiet groan as one of the candles grazed near to his skin, and then sighed in relief as they were waved up to a high shelf where they illuminated the spectacle.

Red bonds criss-crossed the Elf's chest in diamond patterns, framing the delicate collar-bones, the immaculately symmetrical nipples and the taut abdomen, creating small geometric patches of vulnerable paleness between the vicious red lines. The slender waist was cinched hard with four or five turns of thick blue rope, and likewise the slim, strong thighs, which were tied wide by those same ropes to two far-flung hooks in the floor. Black ropes snaked down each arm from the shoulder, meeting to bind the Elf's elbows cruelly together behind his back, and passing downwards to perform the same service at the wrists. Most diabolical of all was the thin purple cord trapping the Elf's most intimate parts, which now approached their bonds in colour.

"Aye, I went to considerable trouble," responded the Witch King with a dangerous leer, "most particularly since I had little co-operation. Indeed, 'twas only after I started whispering to him of all the lovely things you'll do to him tomorrow evening that he achieved the state I wanted."

Legolas flushed so deeply it almost obscured the stark hand-print fading above his jaw.

Aragorn was taken aback. Could the Elf actually find him attractive, or was the Witch King merely playing another game? _Remember this test is not of him but of you._ The villain's words rang in his ears.

"Is that so?" the Ranger drawled, attempting to match the Witch King's tone. "Well, it pleases me that he likes the idea of being mastered, even tho' it will go ill with him afterwards." He ran a fingertip insolently down the Elf's bare neck.

"Will you not explore your prize, now that I have wrapped it up so nicely?" asked his host.

"It is such a pretty picture - I would like to gaze upon it for a while before disturbing it," responded Aragorn with what he hoped was a man-of-the-world air. "Do I see more of that fine vintage on the table there?"

"You do indeed," beamed the evil monarch, and waved him grandly to the table. "A toast, my young friend." He lifted his filled glass towards Legolas. "To getting what we deserve."

"Nay, Your Majesty, with all respect, I have a better one - to getting what we want!" And Aragorn too toasted the Elf, breathing a silent prayer to Elbereth that he and Legolas would indeed get what they wanted - their lives and their freedom.

"Bravo, lad! I like you more and more!" They sat for some time more, discoursing in crude terms about the Elf's attractions, Aragorn loathing himself for the ease with which the sniggering, sneering words came to his lips.

At length, Aragorn sensed the Witch King becoming impatient, and rose to his feet. "I am sure the rear view is equally delightful - I shall go and look," he said. He sipped deeply of his wine, then approached Legolas with the air of a predator. He seized Legolas' jaw suddenly and forced his lips hard against the Elf's. After a moment of shock, Legolas parted his lips, and Aragorn hoped that he had managed to block the cackling wraith's view enough that he did not see Legolas convulsively swallowing his first mouthful of liquid in several days.

Legolas wrenched his head away in apparent revulsion. Aragorn reluctantly continued to play his part, jerking the Elf back to face him. "How dare you turn from me?" he thundered, and reached around to land a hard slap upon the Elf's exposed buttock, begging pardon with his eyes as he did.

Legolas was hard put to it not to smile. Aragorn's blow bore no resemblance to what he had endured at the Witch King's hands; indeed, under other circumstances, the sensation might almost have been pleasant.

"I beg pardon, my Lord," he said meekly.

Aragorn slapped him again, harder. "I did not say you could speak!"

Legolas bowed his head. After a second or two, he bowed yet further to press a tentative kiss to the hand that had punished him. Aragorn tensed at the lewd chortle behind him, and then decided to pretend to ignore the Witch King. "Much better," he told Legolas, rolling one of the tight cords across Legolas' chest thoughtfully under his finger, though he could barely budge it against the reddened skin. "I think I will allow you to speak after all, so long as you beg. What will you beg me for, I wonder?"

"Please, my Lord, do not prolong my torment. I have so little time…" Legolas' eyes shifted sharply to the left where the candle that kept time in this room burned ever closer to the midnight mark. Aragorn followed his gaze and nodded slightly.

"I cannot guess what you mean, foolish Elf," Aragorn scolded. "We have all this night and tomorrow to disport ourselves before you meet your fate, and believe me, you are far too delicious all trussed up like that for me to curtail my pleasures."

Aragorn gave an inner sigh of relief as he heard an almost apologetic cough behind him and felt the Witch King's hand descend upon his shoulder. So he had guessed correctly. "Actually, dear boy, I'm afraid that is all you are permitted for tonight. You must go back to your room now."

"No! I will not be denied!" The Ranger turned angrily to the Witch King, and Legolas held perfectly still, hoping this calculated show of defiance would not have disastrous consequences for Aragorn.

"You will do as you are told," snapped the monarch.

"Indeed I will not! He is mine to enjoy - you said as much!"

The Witch King whipped out his sword and backed the defenceless Aragorn up to the nearest wall. The point of the weapon dug slightly into his bare chest, and a small trickle of blood started its way down the Ranger's torso.

"I yield," said Aragorn immediately.

"Not enough, boy!" replied the Witch King angrily, and scratched the tip of his blade agonizingly up to Aragorn's neck, where it remained ominously poised.

"I beg pardon, Your Majesty. I was wrong and ungrateful."

"Better. Go on."

Aragorn's thoughts worked furiously. "I am but a Man, Your Majesty, and I humbly beg your forgiveness for forgetting your generosity when my passions were aroused." The sword tip's pressure relented slightly, but it was not removed. Aragorn closed his eyes in apparent despair. "You spoke truly, Your Majesty - I am as weak and corruptible as you said, no better than any other man."

It was clearly what the Witch King wished to hear. Flipping his sword at the grip, he smacked Aragorn none too gently in the groin with the flat of the blade and drew back. "And worse than many. You will remember better next time, I have no doubt," he said dryly.

Aragorn pulled himself painfully upright, hand to his groin, his heart racing madly at his near escape from death. "Indeed I will, Your Majesty," he said, but the Witch King's attention was upon the time candle.

"Just to show you how generous I can be," he said, "I will give him to you in your room for an hour or two. The final act you will save for tomorrow - on pain of death, Aragorn - but anything else is permitted." Aragorn hoped the elation on his face would be attributed to base motives; this was better than he could have expected. With two quick swings of his sword, the Witch King severed the ropes that tethered Legolas to the floor, and then marched his two captives at sword-point to Aragorn's cell. He wasted no time once they were in, but slammed the door shut and bolted it solidly from the outside.

Aragorn started to speak, but Legolas hushed him quickly, until they heard the distant thud of another door. Aragorn struck tinder and lit a candle or two. "I was right! We were right!" he exclaimed, hastening to release Legolas' arms.

"It seems so," replied Legolas, stretching and then applying himself to the rest. "He loses his powers completely as the midnight hour approaches - did you notice that he did not use his magic at all at the end there? And obviously it suited him to have a place he could quickly confine us both before we could turn upon him. Wherever it is he goes in the hour after midnight, it is to regain his magic."

"Then we have not a moment to waste," said Aragorn. He had already tested the door and found it immovable; now he lit as many candles as he could and started to hunt and feel his way around the walls and floor in hopes of a hidden passage or trapdoor. Legolas joined him, but within a few minutes it was apparent the search was hopeless.

"We will not escape this night," concluded Legolas sadly, seating himself alongside Aragorn upon the bed. He looked at the trail of blood now congealed upon Aragorn's chest. "How bad is your injury?"

"I had forgotten it," replied the Ranger. "Only a scratch." He wiped the blood away with the bed-cover.

"It was a terrible risk you took."

"But worth it." Aragorn reached out a hand to where the red diamond pattern still criss-crossed Legolas' chest, then quickly withdrew it. Legolas frowned and took the hand, holding it firmly in both of his.

"You must realize by now that if worst comes to worst, it will not be rape?" the Elf said gently. "I have lived for centuries, Aragorn. Do not let my appearance, youthful by human standards, deceive you into thinking me virginal or innocent. I will not shatter into pieces from shock. And now that I have come to know you, how kind, how intelligent, how brave you are, now that I have … grown fond of you, your passion cannot possibly kill me."

"I wish I were sure of that," said Aragorn bitterly. "I fear him - I fear he will rape us both with his cruel demands. I fear he will order me to hurt you beyond bearing, and I fear that I will not be able to comply - or that I will." He looked away.

"Ah," said Legolas, understanding, and his arm crept comfortingly round the young man's shoulders. "Then I worry more about you than I do about myself, Aragorn, or Thorongil, or whoever you may be."

"It is Aragorn," admitted the Ranger, knowing now that he would trust this Elf with any secret. "But if we should miraculously escape, that cannot be known."

"I know."

Aragorn studied the floor. "You must not worry about me," he said suddenly. "Why would you?"

Legolas rubbed his back soothingly. "You doubt yourself, is it not so? You dread to discover that what you just told the Witch King is true: that there is at the heart of you some weakness, some darkness that will end by making you as bad as he is."

Aragorn rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. His whispered "yes" was barely audible.

Legolas pulled Aragorn's hands from his face, and replaced them with his own, turning the Ranger so he had no choice but to look straight into the serious blue eyes. "You are wrong, _mellon-nín_ ," he said. "It is true there are many in this world who walk a middle path, and can be led into either good or evil, but there are some whose feet are irrevocably set upon the path of darkness, and some who just as surely serve the light, no matter what they do. Trust me, Aragorn, for I have in my time met many of both kinds, and I know of what I speak. You and the Witch King have no more in common than chalk and cheese; you are two entirely different kinds of being. You could no more descend to his depths than I could transform myself into a warg! Believe in yourself, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I do."

Aragorn shut his eyes tight for a second to suppress the unmanly wetness gathering there, and let the Elf pull him into a brief, tight hug.

A little embarrassed, Aragorn looked away. "We may not have much time left," he said. "We should discuss our plans for tomorrow."

"Yes. Have you something in mind to improve our chances?"

"I have been thinking that the Witch King seems inclined to grant me little favours provided they amuse him." Aragorn bent his head closer to the Elf's and whispered his thoughts into the delicate ear, in case they were already out of time and being overheard.

"It is a good plan," said Legolas when he had finished. "Let us hope we can put it into effect."

"I suppose I should tie you up, at least a little, for when he returns," said Aragorn reluctantly. "No, on the bed - you need to rest. Give me one wrist." And one wrist it was, not very securely affixed to the bedpost by a long cord.

Aragorn blew out all the candles then, and came back to sit on the bed. Legolas felt the Ranger's fingers moving at his temples, and smiled in surprise.

"Do you mind?" asked Aragorn.

"Nay, I am honoured," replied Legolas. "But what will you tell him?"

"I will think of something." A few minutes later, he laid himself down on the bed beside Legolas, self-consciously accepting the Elf's silent invitation to rest upon his shoulder, and against all expectations managed to fall asleep.

So passed Aragorn's second day as prisoner of the Witch King.

 _tbc_   
[My ficlist is here.](http://surreysmum.livejournal.com/101295.html)


	5. Interlude and Chapter 5

Title: Most Precious : interlude  
Author: surreysmum  
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn (Aragorn as Thorongil)  
Rating: R to NC-17 eventually; PG for most of it. Edits will be made as appropriate for the posting site.  
Disclaimer: the astonishingly fertile world of Middle Earth was created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I merely grow a few little weeds in it, without view to profit.  
A/N: This story takes place around the year 2960 in the Third Age - that is, almost sixty years before the major events of the War of the Ring. Aragorn spent several decades under the name of Thorongil in the service of Thengel King of Rohan and then Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. This story is set early in that period.

 **Interlude**

Shortly after dawn, the Witch King entered Aragorn's cell and stood for a short time contemplating the vision upon the bed. Legolas slept peacefully, open-eyed in the Elvish manner, upon Aragorn's chest, the Ranger's arm thrown protectively around the Elf's back. Aragorn had nuzzled his face into the tousled yellow hair. They looked more like lovers than a predator and his prey. In fact they were neither, but the Witch King could not make up his mind what to think.

Snarling, he woke them both with a hard slap to Legolas' rear. "Rouse yourself, you coddled Elf," he ordered. Instantly awake, Legolas disengaged himself from Aragorn's hold with a convincing show of distaste, and stood himself as far from the bed as the rope around his wrist would allow, head bowed and awaiting orders.

Aragorn came to alertness a little more slowly. "He has no cause to complain of being coddled this past night: he was on his knees for most of it," he lied, giving a yawn.

"Precisely where he should be," replied the Witch King flatly. "But why have you allowed him to put the warrior braids back in his hair?"

"Actually, I did it myself, though he liked it not one whit," Aragorn told him. "I wish him to feel his degradation more acutely: how far he has fallen, from warrior prince to a worthless vessel for the lust of a mere Man. Do not be fooled by his submissive demeanour. He is over-proud, like all his race. Those braids will flail him as cruelly as any whip." Deliberately, he spoke as if the Elf were not even present.

The Witch King pursed his lips, then allowed himself a small, evil smile. "He shall wear them all day, then, on this most portentous of days." He flicked a finger to unfasten Legolas from the bedpost. "Come, Elf. Since your usefulness will rapidly diminish after tonight, you must labour the more strenuously in the meantime." He turned to Aragorn. "I hope the day will not seem too long to you, my young friend. Is there anything you would like, to help pass away the hours of anticipation?"

"The hours will indeed be long." Aragorn did his best to match the Witch King's nasty smile. "I feel like primping a little for the occasion. Perhaps a hot bath, some soap, a new set of clothes? A comb for my hair?" He paused, hoping he had not asked for too much. But once again, the Witch King appeared to find him merely amusing.

"No sooner said than done." A steaming hip-bath and all the requisites appeared in one corner. "Your food will appear as always, Aragorn. Be prepared to attend my summons shortly after your evening meal." Aragorn bowed slightly, and the Witch King hustled the unresisting Elf through the heavy door.

Aragorn quickly stripped and bathed, grimacing and then shrugging at the flowered scent of the soap he had been given. For himself, he cared naught if his hair tangled and his body stank from long days of toil and travel. It was simply part of a Ranger's life. But Legolas might care, and it was Legolas who would have to bear the brunt of whatever bodily indignities were inflicted this coming evening. And neither of them deluded themselves that those indignities could be avoided, even if fortune were to favour them and their plans worked to perfection. They had spoken of the possibilities frankly and unsentimentally during the long night. The Witch King would not repeat his mistake of letting Aragorn prevaricate until the midnight hour neared. So Aragorn scrubbed himself with a diligence most unusual, until the skin of some of his sensitive parts was in danger of being rubbed right off. He washed and rinsed and washed his hair again, then pulled the comb through it roughly until its unruliness was nearly tamed. Looking at his visage in the shiny reflection of the metal bath, he sighed; then, spotting a ribbon amongst the rich garments the Witch King had provided, he tied the wayward hair more carefully than the most dandified courtier in Gondor.

He laughed impatiently at himself. He was behaving like a young miss about to attend her first dancing party. But if he must disgust himself by inflicting his attentions unsought upon the Elf, at least he could do his best not to disgust Legolas as well.

The Ranger was dry and dressed when the Witch King walked in once more. "I did not expect to trouble you again this morn," said the monarch, "but the Elf tells me you have spoken to him somewhat of your travels, and it seems you may know much more about the treasures of the south, and particularly those of the various races of men, than I had guessed. Would you favour me with a perusal of some of these objects?" It was phrased as a request, but of course it was a command. Aragorn tried to keep his expression merely surprised; within himself he rejoiced. Legolas had laid the bait and it had been taken. It was but the first step upon an uncertain path, but he was about to gain admittance to the treasure room. He breathed a quick prayer to Elbereth that he would soon be able to save the most precious treasure within it.

 **Chapter 5**

"That," said Aragorn, "is the ceremonial mask of the Chief Potentate of Fah-El-Pohn, a part of Harad far to the South-West. Local tribe chieftains have crude copies, but only the original, which I believe you have here, is said to have the ability to turn enemies of the Chief Potentate to stone."

Aragorn was seated at his ease in an armchair in the middle of the treasure room. To the side, perched on a tall stool, Legolas transcribed his words into the Witch King's ledger. Aragorn could just see the elegant, angular, Elvish script.

"Ha! Turned to stone from horror at its ugliness, no doubt!" commented the Witch King, setting the mask aside. "And this?"

Aragorn examined the oversized ring, with its emblem of a huge broadsword crossing a fortified wagon. "I know little of the Wainriders," he said, "save the extent of destruction they wreaked upon Gondor for nigh on a hundred years. This ring looks to have been worn by a man of authority; more than that I cannot guess. But I doubt if it has magical powers; the Wainriders never used any, only numbers and brute force."

"And this?"

Aragorn gave him a look of pained exasperation. "You know as well as I do that is the white rod of the Stewards of Gondor."

"Aye, but has it any power?"

"They say the original was made from a branch of the White Tree, but it has been re-made many times since. If it has power, it is only that of him who wields it."

"And this."

Aragorn drew a sharp breath, and nearly dropped the object the Witch King had put in his hands.

"Aye, Aragorn. Your birthright. The ancient Crown of Gondor. And see who can bestow it upon you now! Will you not put it on, find out how it feels?"

For a long moment, Aragorn reverently ran his fingers over the winged helm, turning it this way and that as the rare jewels flashed in his eyes. It would be a meaningless act to try it on, but nonetheless he was sorely tempted. Would it help him know how it felt to be a ruler of men? The answer came to him immediately: it would only help him know how it felt to be a pretender. He set the crown gently aside.

"I will not wear it until I have earned it," he said. He hoped his answer would be sufficiently ambiguous for the Witch King; indeed, he was not quite sure what he meant by it himself, for he still did not truly believe he could ever be entitled to lead a Kingdom.

The Witch King, it seemed, had no doubts about his meaning. He glanced significantly at Legolas, and replied, "I see. I shall crown you myself tomorrow, then."

Aragorn forced himself to nod and smile. "Speaking of that," he said smoothly, emulating a politician as best he could, "I have a little favour to ask you. A whim merely, of little importance."

"Aye?" The Witch King appeared interested.

"I like this room very much. It speaks to me of the power and riches to which I may aspire. Would you crown me in here?"

The Witch King's expression was unreadable. "The idea pleases me. Yes, if that is what you want."

"And tonight's… entertainment," Aragorn added casually. "It amuses me to think of this proud butterfly, as you rightly called him, finding his ultimate use in the midst of objects so much more lasting and valuable. Could we?"

A familiar sneering smile had grown upon the Witch King's face. "Why not?" he responded. "I will clear a little space. Now, let us waste no more time. What else do you see that you recognize?"

Aragorn saw a great deal that he recognized, and it gave him pain. Thengel's crown lay dishonoured in a careless pile of similar crowns. And it seemed the Witch King did not balk at grave-robbing, for there on another table was the near-sacred Arkenstone of the dwarves, together with the ancient goblin-killing sword Orcrist; both of those, the Ranger knew, had been buried with the brave dwarf Thorin Oakenshield at the Lonely Mountain. But on these Aragorn did not comment. Instead he rose to his feet and approached a wide shallow silver basin. "Is this the Lady Galadriel's Mirror?" he asked in an awed tone.

"So they say, but it might just as well be a roasting dish for all the use it is to me," replied the Witch King, disgusted. "Ewer after ewer of water have I poured into it, but never an image will it show me, of past, present or future." Aragorn caught a brief tiny smile on Legolas' face.

"It is long since I have visited the forests of Lorien, and I have never gazed into the Lady's Mirror," said the Ranger. "But I know that it abides in the woodland, next to a flowing stream. Perhaps it is the water you pour that is the difficulty?"

"I cannot imagine why. It is always pure."

"You conjure it?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps the Mirror desires natural water."

The Witch King pursed his lips, then turned abruptly and left the room.

"Now comes our first gamble," said Legolas softly, moving to the Mirror and murmuring a few soft words to it in Elvish as he passed his hands over it. He barely had time to return to his stool before the Witch King's steps sounded in the hall. Aragorn slipped a quick arm around the Elf, fondling his chest obscenely.

"Always so impatient, my boy," said the Witch King, but the reproach was mild. He moved quickly to the Mirror, and measured some water into it from the ewer he had brought.

"May I watch?" asked Aragorn eagerly, and not waiting for an answer he took up position looking over the Witch King's left shoulder. He had pulled Legolas with him, so all three saw the first dim stirrings of images within the reflecting surface.

At first the murky picture shifted unsettlingly - a tree, a tower, a sudden blaze of fire, a bearded face gone too quickly to recognize - but then, amidst a glorious radiance, they saw the delicate, beautiful visage of Galadriel.

The Witch King gasped aloud and stepped forward to grasp the mirror. "Do not touch the water," said Legolas sharply. The monarch spared him a malign glance before turning his attention back to the Elven Queen.

"Thraínn!"(1) said Galadriel, her voice echoing powerfully through the room. "I should have known you were the petty thief who took my Mirror. You have always been a greedy little man."

The Witch King's fingers trembled on the rim of the mirror, but whether from fear or anger it was difficult to tell. "Beware, Elven strumpet!" he blustered. "Think not that you are immune from my wrath! Remember I bear a Ring of Power!"

"At your Master's pleasure," scoffed Galadriel. Though she did not betray by word or glance that she saw Aragorn or Legolas, the Ranger sensed the tendrils of her powerful mind probing his own, and felt at the same time invaded and relieved, shamed and understood. He glanced sideways and what he saw in Legolas' face took his breath: an alert serenity that seemed almost to glow of itself, a truly Elvish look but entirely Legolas' own. He realized that Galadriel must be within Legolas' mind also. And then Legolas turned his face and gave him a smile so full of warmth and longing that the Ranger feared his knees would buckle. "You overstep badly, once again," Galadriel warned the Witch King, "and I am dispatching a messenger at this very moment to reclaim all that you have stolen."

"Let him try," snarled the Witch King, and he gripped the mirror more firmly, the tips of his fingers slipping into the water. "He will not even find me!"

"Oh, he will find you!" they heard Galadriel laugh merrily as her image disappeared. The water boiled up ferociously. The Witch King leapt away from the mirror with a curse, clutching his fingertips to his chest. Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a quick glance: not so immune to heat and pain as he claimed, then.

"I will fetch you some snow, my Lord," said Legolas quickly.

"Aye, do that!" grated the Witch King. Legolas slipped quickly out into the courtyard. "And you, get out of my presence," the monarch ordered Aragorn. "I cannot abide the sight of your grinning face one second longer!" He picked up the Mirror and hurled it against the nearest wall, but it landed upon the floor unscathed, mocking the hapless wraith with its unblemished shine.

Aragorn deemed it prudent to do as he was told, and returned to his cell, full of anxiety and nervous anticipation. Legolas had confessed he had not the slightest notion whether the Mirror would seek out its true and only owner, but his hope had been more than answered. Nonetheless, even though Galadriel had as good as promised a rescue party, no being in Middle Earth could traverse the long distance from Lorien in less than several days. They would have to rely on their own devices to get through the evening alive and unharmed.

Aragorn paced helplessly up and down wondering if the Witch King would keep his casually-given word to stage his abominable ceremony in the treasure room. He did not think for a moment that the evil monarch was entirely deceived by their charade of lust and reluctant submission; rather he had the sensation of being held at the end of a very long string, allowed to twist and turn for the entertainment of a sadistic schoolboy who was likely to stamp his twin toys out of existence on a mere whim. It was not a pleasant feeling. Still, Aragorn reminded himself, the treasure room was filled with weapons and other heavy objects; if the slightest chance occurred to overpower their enemy, those would at least be to hand, though how that chance was to occur…

The Ranger sighed and seated himself on the bed, running his hand through his hair, thereby dislodging the ribbon he had tied in that morning. Absent-mindedly he twisted it between his fingers, remembering how he had laughed at himself for preening for the Elf. And then he joyously, shamefacedly re-lived over and over again that wondrous moment of Legolas' smile but a few minutes ago. Besotted fool that he was! It was no longer pity or lust, or some misbegotten combination of the two, was it? Was he fated to go through life losing his heart to every beautiful Elf who bestowed a smile upon him? Aragorn let out a quiet curse and reminded himself it would be a very short life if he did not keep his wits about him, and that even if he survived the night, he would very likely be so blackened in heart and reputation that no Elf would ever desire his company, let alone his affection, again.

It was a very long afternoon.

(1) Readers of Tolkien will be quick to remind me that he never named the Witch King. Gamers will be equally quick to remind me that the Witch King is known as Murazor in their circles. Galadriel, however, has another name for him - Thraínn, a Witch King in an Icelandic saga that Tolkien must have known.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

As the dinner hour approached, there was a sudden clatter, and Aragorn found himself looking at an empty scabbard and with it a wide leather belt to hold it. Accompanying these was a scrap of paper upon which was inscribed, in crabbed ancient handwriting, "Wield well your weapon this evening, and you shall never lack a sword for your scabbard again - nor a sheath for your sword!" Aragorn blanched, not so much at the crudity of the pun, but at the blatant reference to the broken sword of his heritage, Narsil, still safely (he hoped) in the custody of the Elves.

A little later, an evening meal appeared magically within Aragorn's cell, as promised, but he could not bring himself to eat it. Instead, he sat down, stood, walked, sat down again, donned the scabbard, put it aside in disgust, strapped it back on, retied his hair three times, stood by the door listening, pushed himself away from the door cursing, made four circuits of the room reciting fragments of Elvish and Numenorean tales he had heard in his youth, and found himself once again glued to the unshiftable door, fiddling with the hair ribbon that had somehow found its way once more from his hair into his hands.

Of a sudden the door opened soundlessly, and there was no-one outside, nor any voice summoning him. But Aragorn knew the time had come. Swiftly he strode through the dining room, stark and empty now, and pushed his way through to the chilly corridor leading to the courtyard. The treasure room door stood slightly ajar. Taking a deep breath, Aragorn pushed it open.

Facing him, Legolas knelt, hands bound behind his back. His head was bowed, the warrior braids still holding the golden mass back from his face.

"Legolas," said Aragorn quietly.

"Yes, My Lord." His voice was clear and strong, but he did not look up. _Let the play begin_ , thought Aragorn. But where was their audience?

"Stand and face me, Elf," he commanded.

"Aye," came a hoarse, dire whisper from the shadows in the corner of the room. "Face him, Elf." Startled, Aragorn turned to where the Witch King stood, the very picture of blank menace in his head-to-toe black armour. The arousal which, to the Ranger's shame, had accompanied his nervous anticipation, died a sudden death as an instinctive dread seized his guts. He had to fight to stand his ground as the wraith advanced swiftly upon him, the black metal carapace clanking in the silence.

"I do not trust you, son of Arathorn," came the hiss from the dark hole where a face should be. "You have attempted to deceive me; you think me a fool who does not see through your weak façade." A black gauntlet shoved Aragorn roughly backward. "But you will keep your word now. And if you fail, you will watch as I end the life of this Elf on the tip of my sword. It will be a slow death, Aragorn, I promise you. I will not aim for the heart."

Aragorn pulled himself to his full height. "I am a man of my word," he said proudly, his heart racing.

The wraith gave a hiss of disgust. "Even now you think only of saving him!"

"Not so," replied Aragorn. "I merely have a healthy regard for my own skin."

"Then you will delay no longer," grated the Witch King, gesturing to a table that had been cleared of objects. Aragorn walked over to it, and leaned backward against its edge. From there he had a clear view of the rest of the room, but the situation otherwise had little advantage.

Legolas had risen when Aragorn commanded it; he stood silently awaiting the next command. He and the Ranger had spoken of this, and he knew what to expect.

"Some preparation will be needed," Aragorn told the Witch King. "Kneel here at my feet, Elf." As he spoke, he loosed his laces and pulled his organ free. He did not even hear the Witch King's hissed insult, so intent was he on the sight of Legolas settling gracefully between his widespread knees. This was a fantasy he had entertained since first setting eyes on the beautiful being before him. If only the circumstances were changed…

Legolas bent forward and without hesitation or fanfare slid Aragorn between his lips. The rush of heat to his groin overwhelmed the Ranger, and he gasped aloud as he leaned back upon the table, his hands clenching unconsciously into fists. There was no question Legolas had done this before; his skilful tongue had immediately sought out the man's most sensitive spot, and was now flicking and stroking with unspeakable accuracy. Aragorn's hips shifted forward against his bidding, but Legolas accommodated him without distress, then moved into long, smooth sucking strokes up and down his shaft, pausing each time at the sensitive tip to give it a little extra attention. Aragorn looked down with something close to adoration at the bobbing blond head, wondering how even in this most graceless of acts, Legolas looked as gracious, as dignified, as beautiful as ever. The Ranger's hand brushed gently over the Elf's head, and Legolas looked up for a moment, eyes sparkling, before returning to his task.

The Witch King loomed a little closer, watching; Aragorn was startled by his presence, having entirely forgotten him for a few seconds. It was time to move on with the play.

Legolas pulled back suddenly, and Aragorn bit his lip to prevent a whimper from escaping. "I wish to use my hands, my Lord," said the Elf boldly.

"You dare?" Aragorn seized Legolas' chin and tilted it up sharply. Then he turned to the Witch King and rasped, "I wish it too." The Witch King shrugged his utter indifference and the rope flew from Legolas' wrists. The Elf's hands were immediately upon the Ranger, caressing, squeezing, teasing, making the warm, wet suction of his mouth doubly pleasurable.

"Enough!" cried Aragorn after a minute or so, knowing he was close to being undone. They had agreed that everything they did this evening should irritate the Witch King into using his sword rather than his magic, but not anger him into destroying them. It was a very fine line. Aragorn did not like to think of the consequences if the wraith thought he had deliberately allowed himself to be incapacitated.

"You are ready at last, little man?" sneered the Witch King. "But first, I insist, you must punish the Elf for that disobedience just now." Aragorn's empty scabbard dropped to the floor, and he found himself with the leather belt in his hand. Legolas moved immediately to the table and bent himself over the edge of it. With that quiet gesture, he insisted to Aragorn that he _must_ do this; he must not vacillate.

"Three only," said Aragorn quietly, addressing Legolas and not the Witch King so as to avoid losing his composure. "The first for pulling away, the second for speaking without permission, and the third…" He could not for worlds think of a third. "The third," he said at last, "marks my possession." Legolas squirmed ever so slightly, and Aragorn became fully aware for the first time that the Elf was just as aroused as he. Before he could lose his nerve, he doubled the belt in his hand and landed it soundly across the fleshiest part of Legolas' buttocks. The Elf raised his head from the table on a sharp breath, then relaxed as a bloom of dark pink appeared on the pale cheeks. Emboldened by such clear willingness to endure, Aragorn dealt out two more sharp blows in quick succession, careful not to overlap them.

A tiny moan escaped the Elf's lips, and at that Aragorn could not forbear gently pulling him to his feet and into an embrace. "You bore that well," he murmured to him, and kissed him long and lovingly. This, at least, would irritate the Witch King properly, he told himself.

All of a sudden Legolas was ripped from his arms and plastered face-first against the nearest wall, arms above his head, fastened there by magic and unable to move so much as a finger.

"I am growing bored with both of you," came a subterranean growl from the black mask. "Proceed. Now."

"I will need oil," said the Ranger, a dangerous tone in his voice.

"No oil. Proceed."

Aragorn walked a few steps away from the Witch King, under guise of considering. As he did, he stuffed himself uncomfortably back into his leggings and prepared to throw the dice one last, perhaps fatal, time. He turned.

"No," he said.

"What was that?" The whispered words dripped menace.

"I will take what I want when the time comes. I do not want this."

The Witch King advanced noisily. Aragorn let himself be pushed back towards the tables laden with treasure - one, two, three, four, five steps, then a little to the left, a hand back behind him on the table as if to support himself… There was a great clang of metal against armour, and the Witch King staggered backwards, a dent newly decorating his breastplate.

" _En garde_ , Your Majesty!" exclaimed Aragorn, feinting with the great goblin-cleaver Orcrist. The Witch King drew his sword and engaged with him, and Aragorn breathed a quick prayer of thanks to Elbereth. The sword, not the magic. Thanks to the Witch King's vanity and cruelty, they still had a chance.

It was hardly an even match. Aragorn had agility and youth, but in his black shell, the Witch King was very nearly invulnerable, and was no mean swordsman besides. "Young fool!" hissed the wraith. "Do you not know that no man can kill me? It is foretold."

"A man can but try!" exclaimed the Ranger, ducking a great swipe of the Witch King's broadsword. With that began one of the longest and hardest battles of Aragorn's life.

Immobilized in his invisible cage, Legolas' warrior spirit fretted badly at being unable to assist the brave mortal who stood between him and his own ending. He could not see what was happening, but he could hear the clash of metal and the clatter of tables overturning and spilling their precious contents. Now and then there was a silence full of harsh breath as the combatants ceased, warily sizing each other up before resuming their duel. For more than an hour they traded blows. Once Legolas heard a mighty clangor and surmised the Witch King had gone down; more than once he heard a heart-rending, agonized cry from Aragorn. But still they battled on and on. Legolas knew it would not be enough this time. There were four hours or more until midnight. He closed his eyes and invoked the Valar's blessings upon the brave, doomed Ranger.

As his fists convulsively tried to clench in despair, a tiny miracle happened. The tips of Legolas' fingers moved. He tried them again, and then carefully stilled himself. The Witch King's magic was weakening from the Ranger's unstinting onslaught, but the Elf must on no account draw attention to it, no matter how much he wished to shout encouragement to Aragorn.

What seemed like an age later, Legolas pulled his hips and shoulders minutely away from the wall, testing. He was free! He turned to the sight of Aragorn pinned up against the far wall, disarmed. "Are you ready to die at last, foolish boy?" the Witch King jeered. Legolas seized a torch from the embrasure in the wall, and thrust it at the wraith's faceplate with a Mirkwood warcry. The Witch King started back, and Aragorn dipped quickly to the ground, regained his sword, and thrust it with all his strength through the seam between breastplate and headpiece.

Like rolling thunder, the Witch King's armour clattered to the ground.

Aragorn slumped against the wall, overcome suddenly by the pain of his wounds. "He is not dead," he gasped urgently, and pointed to a wisp of vapour disappearing under the crack of an inconspicuous door towards the back of the room. Legolas ran to the door and rattled, but it was securely latched on the other side. Catching up a large and solid-looking dwarvish axe, he shattered through the wood in half a dozen swift strokes. One after the other they pushed their way into the Witch King's refuge.

It was dark, but a wavering, nearly transparent form, human in shape, could dimly be seen lying upon a divan. Floating eerily where the hands of the wraith were folded upon its chest was a solid ring, tarnished near to blackness. And from that ring a preternatural beam of light extended to a glowing sphere set carefully upon an altar.

"A palantir!" exclaimed Aragorn. He stumbled towards it, drawn without thinking to look within. Sensing his presence the palantir drew him, seducing him, promising him answers about his future.

"Nay, Aragorn," shouted Legolas. The Elf laid hands upon a large black bag lying near the door, and threw it quickly over the palantir, then raised the axe that was still in his grasp and smashed it ruthlessly down. Amidst the sound of shattering glass came a painful high whine from the wraith, and as it shifted ineffectually, the ring, released from the beam of light, tinkled to the floor.

Glancing quickly at Aragorn, who stood dazed, Legolas retrieved the ring, tossed it in the bag with the pulverized remains of the palantir, and sprinted out into the little courtyard. There he threw the sack and its contents into the poisonous deeps.

Alone for a few seconds with the wraith, Aragorn began to recover himself. He retrieved a short, sharp dagger from the treasure room and raised it above the writhing, vaporous wraith.

"You can try," Legolas told him from the doorway. "But I fear it will be bootless."

Aragorn nodded grimly, but drove the dagger clear through the wraith's chest anyway. As they both expected, it had no effect.

"We must fly," urged the Elf. "We do not know when he will recover."

The Ranger looked in despair around the treasure room. "We have no means to carry all these," he said.

"We will seek out aid," Legolas urged. "Perchance we will encounter Galadriel's messenger. But for now we must save ourselves!"

Aragorn agreed somberly, pausing only to give a brief touch to the winged crown before limping after Legolas. To his surprise, the Elf made for the deeper caves, and not back towards the chasm where Aragorn had entered. "The other way is always blocked," explained Legolas. "But I caught a glimpse of a tunnel back here which seems to climb. I am hoping it will take us out an easier way." He took a burning brand from the wall, then handed it to Aragorn to hold when they encountered a locked door.

"I will help," said Aragorn as Legolas prepared to shoulder it open.

"You are injured," replied Legolas in a tone that brooked no argument. And with one focused effort he broke through. "What is it?" he asked, seeing Aragorn looking at him oddly.

"You need clothing," replied Aragorn brusquely, pulling off the cloak he still wore.

"It is rather late to be discovering such sensibilities, is it not?" joked Legolas, though he took the cloak anyway and wrapped it around his nakedness. In the midst of their urgency, they exchanged a quick smile before hurrying onwards.

The tunnel sloped steeply upwards, and it was not long before Aragorn's left thigh, which bore a deep slash, refused to carry him. Legolas simply looped the Ranger's arm about his own shoulder, half-carrying him from then on.

"I think it will not be much farther," said the Elf encouragingly. "I sense a change in the air, and I hear water. Perhaps it is another underground stream? These mountains seem to be riddled with them."

Abruptly the tunnel evened out and their flickering torch showed them a small flat area, with a stream gushing from a crack in the rock and a little boat tethered to a post beside it. Nearby was an enormous pile of rubble reaching to the ceiling. Carefully easing Aragorn to the ground, Legolas climbed the loose stones, prying a few loose at the top. His face was grim when he returned to his friend. "That was the place of egress, once," he said. "But now it is quite impassable."

With effort, Aragorn heaved himself upright. "Then it is back to the Witch King's lair, or this small vessel," he said. "I think there is little doubt which it must be."

Legolas helped him solicitously into the boat. "If it is the same stream… " he started.

"I know, my friend, I know." They cast off, and entrusted themselves to the rushing water. The smooth walls of the watercourse closed in around them, sometimes to the point where they had to crouch to the bottom of the boat.

All too soon came the sound they dreaded - the steady pounding of the waterfall. Aragorn shifted painfully, catching a glimpse of Legolas' pale, calm face in the darkness. He opened his arms.

"Together," he said.

"Together," said Legolas, completing the embrace.

Over the lip of the waterfall they went, the boat slipping out sideways from beneath them to shatter upon the rocks. And down they plunged, clutching tightly to one another, into the dark perils of the chasm.

 _tbc_   
[My ficlist is here.](http://surreysmum.livejournal.com/101295.html)


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Most Precious, chapter 6/7  
Author: surreysmum  
Rating: R/NC-17  
Pairing: L/A  
Disclaimer: Just a few weeds in the corner of the great Professor Tolkien's garden. The characters of Middle Earth are the property of the Professor's heirs and designates.

 **Chapter 6**

The first thing Aragorn felt was cold - a cold spiking him so deeply and painfully that every tendril of his battered body urged him to retreat back into unconsciousness.

"Aragorn," said an anxious voice above him, and there was a warm spot, just one, at the base of his neck. There was uncomfortable melting wetness on his skin. Aragorn opened his eyes to a swirling cloud of white and a vision of gold and ivory gauze that eventually resolved itself into Legolas' worried face.

"Can you move?" asked the Elf. "We must seek shelter. The snowstorm is bad and shows no sign of abating." As he spoke he pulled his hand away from where it rested near Aragorn's throat, and the Ranger felt bereft. He moved each limb experimentally, wincing, and pushed himself wearily to a sitting position.

Legolas helped him to his feet. "I managed to pull us out where the road fords the river," he explained. Aragorn blinked. There was a road? But Legolas seemed to be able to discern a path, so Aragorn fixed his gaze on the Elf's bare feet and concentrated on moving in the same direction. He was distracted by the bright ruby spots that decorated the snow as they walked.

"You're bleeding," he deduced hesitantly.

Legolas shrugged. "The ice was sharp at the edge of the river," he explained. "I have cut my legs a little. It is no matter."

Aragorn shivered violently. He was soaking wet, and the tenuous warmth of his body was not enough to hold off the freezing of his clothes around him. Legolas pulled him closer and supported him, and they staggered onward into the blizzard. Legolas was rapidly losing hope that the mortal would survive this. His wounds from the sword fight and the terrible shock of the freezing water would not allow him to go much further, and keen as the Elf's senses were, he could barely even find the road ahead of them, let alone a place to shelter. Legolas had rarely despaired in his very long life, but he was close to it now.

Aragorn groaned aloud and lurched hard. His wounded thigh had given way again. Carefully Legolas lowered him to sitting, to ease the pain and let him catch his breath.

Aragorn shook his head, feeling his every extremity shivering violently. "I am finished," he told Legolas. "Go - find a place of safety for yourself."

Legolas dropped down beside him, wrapping his still nearly naked body around him, and pulling the cloak tight around all. "You talk like a fool, Man," he said fiercely. "I will not abandon you. When you are a little recovered, we will start again. I can carry you if need be."

Legolas knew he spoke only half the truth. He was greatly debilitated himself from the abuse he had suffered at the hands of the Witch King. He might lift the mortal, but he would not be able to carry him long or far. It was more than likely he would end by digging his saviour's grave in the snow. The thought gave him an unbearable pang.

But Aragorn was speaking again, though slowly, seeking words. "You should find help," he insisted. "The Lady's messenger … or your father's warriors… "

But Legolas stubbornly said, "I will not leave you." Aragorn heaved a sigh, and laid his head upon the Elf's shoulder for a moment. The he put his trembling fingers to the Elf's face and with frozen lips claimed the kiss he had denied himself on the first day of his captivity. The Elf returned it gently.

For an hour, they sat desolately together in the middle of the snow-blanketed road, Aragorn semi-conscious in Legolas' embrace. At length, the Elf's keen ears discerned a series of measured, muffled thuds some way off. Was it aid at last, or their direst foe? Either way, there was no way to move out of the road to hide.

The thudding grew louder. It was no Man or Elf who made such a noise. Legolas strained his eyes in the direction of the sound. A dim grey bulk loomed out of the snow and brought its huge, inhuman face down to them to investigate, bestowing upon them a great whiff of warm breath. Aragorn stirred and looked up.

"Brego!" he exclaimed faintly. "Oh wonderful, marvellous horse!" The horse whickered and nuzzled him, then bumped Legolas gently with his muzzle.

"Does he still bear saddlebags?" asked Aragorn.

Legolas stroked Brego's nose softly. "I will look," he replied. Within seconds he was pulling a spare blanket from Brego's saddlebags with a cry of joy. He wrapped it around the Ranger.

"Can you mount?" he asked.

"Not sure," grunted Aragorn, struggling to his feet with Legolas' aid.

Brego nickered, and to the astonishment of both, knelt awkwardly down upon his front legs to make it easier for Legolas to hoist Aragorn into the saddle, then pushed valiantly to his hooves once more. Legolas gave the clever beast a pat of approval and leapt nimbly up behind Aragorn.

The snow was as heavy as ever, but Brego seemed to be confident of his path, so Legolas gave him his head and let him set his own steady, careful pace. Only twice did the Elf dismount and lead the horse past a hazardous cliff. Each time he quickly returned to the Ranger, who was remaining upright in the saddle only with obvious difficulty.

The second time Legolas reappeared behind him, Aragorn leaned back into the Elf's body heat, still shivering despite the blanket.

"How did he find us? How did he know we needed him?" he wondered aloud.

"Four-legged beasts have their own wisdom that few of us understand," replied Legolas, and he gave Brego another encouraging pat. "But I have never seen the like of this horse."

Just at that moment, Brego stopped in his tracks, then veered off the road towards a barely visible crack in the cliffs alongside.

"Found something, my friend?" murmured the Elf. He alighted once more, then with a mutter of satisfaction led horse and rider carefully into the concealed cave-mouth. Even by the dim sliver of daylight that remained to them, he could see that the cave was large and well-used. An oil-lamp sat upon a shelf near the opening, along with flints, a tinder-box, and a length of steel. As soon as the lamp was lit, Legolas led Brego forward, finding a straw-strewn side niche which clearly served as a stable of sorts. He helped Aragorn slide his wounded leg over the horse, but the Man give a little sigh and collapsed unconscious into his arms.

Legolas caught him easily and walked over to a pile of rugs in one corner. Even as he busied himself with making the Man comfortable, Legolas raised an Elvish eyebrow at the luxurious and expensive make of the carpeting.

Aragorn stirred. "Elbereth!" he cursed hoarsely. "I swooned like a maiden!"

"You swooned like a warrior wounded in battle," Legolas corrected him, lifting his head to rest it on a velvet cushion he had found.

Aragorn stirred restlessly, and tried to raise himself on his elbows. "I must see to Brego."

"I will take care of the horse, just as soon as you are settled," responded Legolas, pushing him back down. "Fear not, I would not be so ungrateful as to forget him."

Aragorn sighed and his eyes fluttered shut. "My mind is so muddled," he said. "Where are we?"

"By appearances, it is a smuggler's cave. Quite well appointed, I must say. We have a lamp, and I see wood, kindling and a burnt spot under a crack in the rock where we can build a small fire. And if we have fire, we have water, for I can melt snow from outside."

But Aragorn did not seem to be listening. His misted gaze wandered aimlessly around the half-lit cavern. Legolas sighed and touched his face gently, wishing he had more knowledge of healing. He stripped the Man efficiently of boots and clothing. Aragorn made neither protest nor move to help, but when the Elf carefully tugged the shredded breeches from his thigh wound he gasped aloud.

"Are you well?" asked Legolas quickly.

Aragorn gave only an incoherent mutter in reply. Frowning, Legolas fashioned Aragorn's discarded shirt into a tight bandage as best he could. The wound no longer bled, but it was angry and gaping, and Legolas was painfully aware that he had not the skill to deal with it properly. That done, he covered Aragorn with another rug, and went to relieve the patient Brego of his burden.

Half an hour more found the Elf sitting at Aragorn's side again, having contrived to light a fire, melt a bowl of snow into water, and locate some fodder for both Man and beast, though dry and unappetizing. There had been a little _lembas_ also in Aragorn's saddlebags, but Legolas was saving that until he was sure the Ranger could chew and swallow it without difficulty. At the moment, the cup of water Legolas periodically put to Aragorn's lips was not always heeded, and the Elf was growing increasingly concerned by the heat in the Man's face and hands. He dipped a cloth into the water and put it to Aragorn's forehead.

Aragorn's eyes opened wide and he pushed himself ineffectually away. "No!" he cried out. "Do not touch me, you vile creature!"

Legolas pulled back. "Aragorn," he said. "It is I, Legolas. Your friend."

Aragorn gave an odd laugh. "So you would have me believe, Witch King!" he said. "You have chosen to appear as the one person I would most wish to see. It is too obvious a choice."

Legolas frowned. "We crippled the Witch King's powers, _mellon_. He no longer has his ring or his palantir. We have escaped him, at least for now. I am no illusion; truly, I am Legolas. And I only wish to cool your forehead a little."

Aragorn dropped his head back on the cushion, unable to do anything else. His eyes were dim, his breath tight and too fast. "Do not torment me with his likeness," he whispered. "It is more than I can bear. I am but a Man."

Legolas bent close to hear. "What do you think I want of you?" he asked quietly.

"You want me to take him - rape him - murder him!" gasped Aragorn. "But I will not; I will find a way to set him free, if it is the last thing I do!"

Legolas nodded to himself. Aragorn's mind had wandered back to their captivity. He put the damp cloth gently to the Ranger's forehead, saying "Try to rest."

But Aragorn grasped at Legolas' hand and opened eyes that burned. "You are wrong," he said clearly. "You think you will win because my body craves him, but I will win because I have given him my heart. I will never touch him - because I love him!"

Legolas took a moment to gain control of his voice. "And what if he loves you also?" he asked at last. But there was no answer. Aragorn had fallen into exhausted slumber after his outburst.

The Elf sat lost in thought for some time after that, automatically applying the cooling cloth at intervals to Aragorn's forehead. The Man slept restlessly, his fever unabating. Eventually Legolas went to rummage again in Brego's saddlebags, pulling out Aragorn's pouches of herbs. He shook his head ruefully. There was little here he recognized, and he had no desire to poison his friend in the hope of healing him. But then he took up one of the larger bags and sniffed the contents. Now this he could use. Everyone from master healers to raw youths knew what to do with this.

As he heated a bowlful of water on a rickety contraption he had found for the fire, Legolas smiled. The bitter taste of willow-bark tea would make Aragorn grimace, he was sure, but if he could persuade him to take enough of it, it would break his fever, ease his pains, and see him through to the morning.

/-/-/

Aragorn awoke feeling unrested and still slightly befuddled, but much more himself.

"A little more tea?" came a soothing voice, and the Ranger focused his eyes on Legolas.

"Willow-bark?" he asked wryly. "Disgusting stuff. But I thank you for chasing away my fever with it. I had a most unsettled night, full of horrifying dreams." He sat up slightly and took a few sips from the cup in the Elf's hands.

"How is your leg this morning?"

Aragorn shifted slightly and winced. "Painful and stiff," he reported.

"May I look?"

"Of course." Aragorn pushed aside his covering, unabashed by his nakedness, and helped to unwind the makeshift bandage. It was not a pretty sight. Legolas slid behind him to help prop the Ranger up as he examined his own wound with a healer's dispassionate eye.

"It needs stitching," Aragorn said grimly. "But I doubt I can accomplish it myself. Will you aid me?" Legolas looked at him in horror. Amongst his quick-healing people, such expedients were rarely necessary.

"I can sew," he said, "but sew _you_?"

"It is easier to bear at another's hand." Aragorn grimaced as he probed the gash. "And I may well succumb to a much worse fever if it becomes poisonous. There is needle and twine in the saddlebags." He looked up at the Elf's anxious face. "Will you do this for me, _mellon-nín_?

"I will try." Legolas found the needle. He held up the herb pouches. "Is there nothing in here that could help you bear the pain?"

Aragorn considered. "I will finish the willow-bark tea before you work. But I wish to be able to talk with you, and guide you if needs be. Afterwards, perhaps, something for sleep - may I see those yellow pouches?" Legolas handed them to him silently. Aragorn shook his head. "No poppy left," he said. "Wait, there is some mandrake powder here. A pity I have no wine to take it in…"

Legolas could not help but smile a little. "I think you have but to choose your vintage," he said. They were surrounded by case upon case of dusty bottles.

"Then we have all we need," replied Aragorn grimly, and he made himself swallow the last of the bitter tea. "No, not here; I will need something to hold on to."

In one corner they found a simple wooden chair with no arms. Aragorn pulled it out to the centre of the cave next to a crate, seated himself and gripped the sides. Bringing the oil lamp and placing it upon the crate, Legolas kneeled before him, knotted his length of twine and started careful, steady stitching along the length of the wound. Above him, Aragorn bit his lip hard, going pale and sweaty while agony piled on agony. As Legolas pinched together the edges of the deepest part and stabbed the needle through once more, he uttered a muffled cry and his lower body jerked hard in spite of himself. The needle went flying from Legolas' hand, and the crate rocked, nearly tipping the lamp. Legolas barely saved it.

"Your pardon," gasped Aragorn as soon as he could form words.

"Nay, 'twas my clumsiness," replied Legolas immediately. He checked the wound gingerly; fortunately there was no further damage. He took one more stitch, and again Aragorn jerked uncontrollably.

The Ranger said, "This will not do. I may injure you. Is there a belt or strap?"

Legolas wanted to retort that being pricked by a needle was the last of his worries, but he saw the sense of Aragorn's suggestion even as he cringed inwardly at the necessity. The sooner this was over with the better. He seized a pair of straps from Brego's tackle and tied Aragorn swiftly and firmly to the chair at waist and knees. As he did, his wrist brushed carelessly against the Ranger's quiescent organ. He murmured an automatic apology and suppressed his own sudden flare of awareness. Now was not the time.

He picked up the needle and resumed his task, desperately trying to make himself believe that the flesh before him was inanimate and that it was not his actions that caused each pained gasp he heard, that made the muscled abdomen before his eyes heave and twitch, that whitened the grasping knuckles just at the corner of his view. He castigated himself for a slow, clumsy, unskilled fool.

At long last, one final knot and it was over. Looking up into Aragorn's eyes, he said "Finished," but did not wait to watch the relief appear there nor see the gradual relaxing of the Man's over-tried muscles. Instead the Elf impatiently knocked the head off a bottle of wine, poured a generous amount into the cup, and reached into the yellow pouch for the mandrake powder.

"Be careful with that," Aragorn warned him and, incredibly, graced him with a weak smile. "Too much and I will sleep for a week. Or worse." Legolas wordlessly gave him the cup and the pouch, and the Ranger measured out a small pinch, stirred the potion with his finger, and downed it in a gulp.

"Let me help you back to your bed," said Legolas.

Aragorn looked up through his eyelashes. "You may need to untie me first," he said wryly. "You are very good at tying people down. Remind me" - he yawned suddenly - "remind me never to become your enemy."

Legolas had the straps off before the Ranger finished speaking. Then, ignoring Aragorn's weak negative, he scooped him up bodily and placed him back in his improvised bed, cushioning the wounded leg with another velvet pillow.

As he succumbed to the drug-induced stupor, Aragorn's hand sought out Legolas' and squeezed it once before dropping away.

 _tbc_   
[My ficlist is here.](http://surreysmum.livejournal.com/101295.html)


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Most Precious, Chapter 7 of 7  
Author: surreysmum  
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn (Aragorn as Thorongil)  
Rating: R to NC-17 eventually; PG for most of it.  
Disclaimer: the astonishingly fertile world of Middle Earth was created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I merely grow a few little weeds in it, without view to profit.  
A/N: This story takes place around the year 2960 in the Third Age - that is, almost sixty years before the major events of the War of the Ring. Aragorn spent several decades under the name of Thorongil in the service of Thengel King of Rohan and then Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. This story is set early in that period.

 _… to my dear doting heart_  
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.  
Shakespeare; Sonnet #131.

**Most Precious, Chapter 7**

Aragorn slept for a long while after his ordeal, but he did not sleep well. He tossed and thrashed, muttering and groaning beneath his breath. Legolas sat patiently at his side, singing softly and stroking the Ranger's brow when he seemed most agitated. At least the fever did not seem to be returning, or not in any significant measure.

When the Ranger quieted a little, the Elf got up and went out into the cold darkness outside the cave, gathering a bowlful of snow and listening carefully for any signs of life beside themselves. The wind had died completely and the snow had stopped, leaving the air crystalline and dry. It seized the breath from his throat, and turned it to ice before his face. Above him the sky was black and moonless, and the stars shone jaggedly against it, aloof and very far away. Legolas was not sure that any prayer to Elbereth, Queen of those stars, would reach her tonight across the vast silence. He began to doubt his hearing, so quiet it was, and he felt an absurd urge to cry out into the mountainous loneliness just for the sake of hearing a noise. But he refrained. The absence of noise did not mean no-one was listening.

He turned gratefully back into the shelter of the cave. Seeing that the Ranger slept peacefully for now, Legolas took a chair a little apart, and sat contemplating his patient, his new friend, his rescuer - and perhaps his lover? Though he had lived long and loved more than once, Legolas found himself startled by the depth of the feelings the modest, scruffy young man stirred within him. In his father's isolated kingdom, he encountered few mortals, and never, until now, had he met one so compelling. All the traditions of his people warned against loving mortals, and such loves were so rare that they were commemorated in tales, usually tragic ones. Legolas knew beyond doubt that it would be a very foolish idea to give his heart to this mortal. And, steepling his fingers thoughtfully in the flickering of the firelight, he admitted to himself that it seemed he had already done so.

Aragorn wrenched himself over on one side, a moan in his throat. Legolas moved swiftly to his side. " _Mellon_ , how fare you?" he asked softly, but the Ranger was still asleep. Both his hands were thrust down his front under the rug that covered him, and the Elf was concerned that the wounded leg was paining him badly. He nudged aside the covering to see whether the bandage was holding. It was, but that was not what caused Legolas' eyebrows to rise. Still in the grip of his dreams, the Ranger was very much aroused.

"Aragorn!" Legolas put a hand to the Man's shoulder, meaning to wake him gently. Like lightning, Aragorn's arms coiled around him, pulling the Elf down beside him on his makeshift couch; before Legolas could react, he was being rolled to his back, and Aragorn was devouring his mouth with kisses. Just as Legolas overcame his first shock and relaxed into enjoyment, the kisses stopped abruptly, and Legolas looked up into the Man's horrified gaze.

"I… I beg your pardon," gasped Aragorn, moving away quickly. He tried to get out of the bed altogether, but had to stop with a frustrated grimace when his wounded leg protested. Legolas seized his wrist gently and guided him back to his pillows, where he immediately turned his back to the Elf and put his face in his hands.

"You were asleep, then?" said Legolas, resting a tentative hand upon the Man's shoulder.

"Of course," replied Aragorn hoarsely. "I would never do such a thing…"

Legolas sighed, a little dramatically, and dropped to his back. "Am I so very repulsive?"

Aragorn rolled over and gave him an incredulous look. "You know you are not. It is only…"

"Yes?"

Aragorn found himself without words. There were so many reasons why it would be wrong… and yet none of them seemed to bear speaking aloud in the face of that pellucid blue gaze. And somehow one of his hands had found its way back into both of the Elf's.

"It is only the mandrake root," he said. "It ofttimes has that effect."

Legolas just smiled and shook his head slightly at him. "Have you promised yourself to another?" he asked. "Is that it?"

That, at least, was easy to answer. Only once had he even been tempted, and it had been made emphatically clear to him by his foster-father that ambitions so far above his mere mortal status were not permitted. "Nay," he said simply.

"Then our way is clear," said the Elf, sitting up on an elbow and bending his lips to the Ranger's. But Aragorn closed his eyes tight shut and turned his head. Legolas drew back and released the captive hand.

There were several minutes of painful silence. Then Legolas said, "I do not understand." There was honest dismay in his voice. "I desire you. You desire me. Neither of us is promised elsewhere. We are alone. Why do you … why do you turn from me?"

Aragorn bit his lip. "I cannot comprehend why you would desire a hairy, stinking, short-lived Man," he said, the bitterness of his own words surprising him a little. "And a debilitated one at that."

Legolas considered this for a moment. "Well, I do not choose to swell your head with all the reasons," he replied rather tartly, "but I do desire you. And what _I_ cannot comprehend is why we are lying here discussing it." He reached a bold hand to the man's organ and discovered that there was still much interest there, at least.

Aragorn took a sharp breath and pushed the hand off. "My desire is…." He searched for a word. "Tainted."

"Tainted because you have hair upon your chest?" Disbelief rang in the Elf's voice.

"Nay, it is not that…" said Aragorn wearily.

A look of comprehension passed across the Elf's face. "Aragorn, when I woke you just now were you dreaming of what passed between us in the Witch King's lair?"

"Aye," confessed the Ranger. He turned to look Legolas full in the face. "I hurt you."

"Aye, you did. And it was necessary. And but a few hours ago, I too hurt _you_ because it was necessary. It seems to me we are even on that score."

"It is not the same."

"Nay, it is not," replied the Elf gently. "Everything that happened in that place was under compulsion. There was, there _could be_ nothing right about it, except your great courage, _mellon-nín_ , and our will to survive."

"It was not the Witch King who compelled my body to react so, to revel in your humiliation and your pain…"

"I shudder to think of what would have happened if it had not," replied Legolas seriously. He turned and propped his chin on his hands, looking curiously at the Ranger. "Aragorn, how many winters have you seen? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-nine," Aragorn replied irritably. He had taken much teasing for his lack of years from his elven foster-brothers.

"No insult is meant," Legolas assured him. "But that is little time enough to explore the whole world and all the wonderful strangeness in it. I think you have not yet discovered that many people find others' pain or humiliation pleasurable in the context of desire, and many others find their own pain or humiliation pleasurable likewise. So long as both consent, and no lasting harm is done, it is not a tainted thing, but merely a different kind of delight that some of us are blessed by the Valar to experience."

"Some of us?" murmured Aragorn, obviously trying to understand. "Your body responded also … are you one of those who finds pleasure in pain?"

"In pain, or in the inflicting thereof; I delight in both," replied Legolas calmly. Aragorn's eyes grew wide and black at the knowledge. _Ah, so that is how the wind blows_ , Legolas thought, and put the information away for some other time. "Or neither," he went on, "which is what I hope for now. Is it too much?"

For answer, the Ranger reared up and put a large warm hand on each side of the Elf's face, examining him as if he could detect any insincerity from the very colour of his eyes or the shape of his lips. Finding none, he fell back upon his pillow, opening his arms, and Legolas followed gladly.

As the Elf covered him, rubbing smooth skin avidly across the sparse, warm fur on his chest, Aragorn gave a little noise of discomfort despite himself.

Legolas sat up. "Now that is a kind of pain no-one can take delight in," he said, and carefully arranged cushions around and over Aragorn's leg so it could neither shift nor take a direct jar. As soon as he was done, Aragorn tugged gently upon one of the long braids, pulling him back, and murmuring, "But now you have me at a terrible disadvantage. I cannot make love to you; I cannot even move."

"Ah yes," smiled Legolas. "You are at my mercy at last, Human! How does it feel?" He flicked his braid out of Aragorn's grasp, and instead of lying down again, reached for the unlit lamp and coated his fingers with a generous amount of oil. The uncertain light from the fire gave only tantalizing glimpses of those fingers as they moved slowly down between Legolas' pale nether cheeks, and only the Elf's sudden sigh of pleasure told Aragorn of the moment he anointed himself. That sigh the Ranger matched a moment later when the same slick fingers found his unflagging organ.

"I told you, did I not, that your passion could never be rape between us?" Legolas asked, as he carefully straddled the Man's hips. "Let me show you."

And he did.

/-/-/

Night was falling once more when Legolas was awakened from light reverie to a sound of shuffling, not to mention curses in a variety of languages, at the mouth of the cave. "Stubborn as a mule - never was there a truer saying!" said the exasperated voice. "Move in or get out of the way, for you have three brethren who need shelter!"

Brego neighed indignantly as his spacious nook was suddenly crammed with four well-laden invaders. Aragorn sat up muzzily. It did not take Legolas' hasty lighting of the lamp for him to recognize their visitor.

"Gandalf!" he exclaimed.

"Mithrandir!" uttered Legolas at the same moment.

"Pleased to see you, lads, pleased to see you - woah there, you ill-favoured beast! I thought I might find you here."

Legolas paled slightly. "You did? Is this cave well-known, then?"

Gandalf grinned through his beard. "Maglint's den? Well, yes, I'd say it is well known to those in the know, if you know what I mean! It seemed a likely refuge."

"Will not the Witch King find us out here, then?" asked Aragorn, coming rapidly awake.

"The Nazgûl has worries enough of his own, never fear, dear boy," Gandalf responded breezily. Having settled his four mules to his satisfaction for the nonce, he proceeded into the main cave and settled himself rather breathlessly on their pile of rugs, averting his eyes from the sight of their nakedness.

"Have you two no garments?" he asked in an irritated tone, though there was laughter close beneath.

"In fact, I have none," admitted Legolas. "We fled in a hurry."

"And mine are in shreds," added Aragorn ruefully.

The old wizard chuckled. "I'm sure Maglint will not mind if you borrow a few rags," he said. "Try the crate in that far corner."

Moments later, the Ranger and the Elf were decked out in the finest velvet and lace, much to the amusement of all. Legolas was dissuaded only with great difficulty from adding a thoroughly splendid hat, complete with a long purple feather, to his outfit.

"Very well," said Gandalf at last, once the hilarity had subsided. "You are fit to be seen." He pulled Galadriel's Mirror out of the pack of the first mule, and without ado tipped the last of Legolas' meltwater into it.

"My faithful messenger." Galadriel's warm tones filled the cave. "You have found them, then."

"Aye, my Lady."

"And the treasures?"

"All accounted for, and ready for their long journeys home."

"The upstart Thraínn?"

"These clever lads deprived him of his power long enough for me to arrive. He was naught but a creeping worm, hanging helpless over the lip of a poisoned well, when I found him. I have imprisoned him in walls of bespellèd stone, deep within his own mountain. Unfortunately he will not expire, as we know, but it will be several dozens of years before he can find his way out and wreak mischief for the Dark Lord again."

Galadriel sighed. "Yes, we have thwarted the servant, but the master is still unconstrained. Still, you have done great service, Mithrandir. I thank you."

"Ah, most of the credit goes to these fine young fellows here. I merely mopped up the mess." Gandalf smoothed the ends of his long moustache.

"Thorongil." Aragorn jumped at the sound of the alias he was no longer accustomed to hear.

"Aye, my Lady." He moved into view of the mirror. Galadriel gave him an approving smile.

"I think Thengel King misses your company, my young friend. But he will have to spare you a little, for Mithrandir and I are entrusting you with the return of many of the treasures of the southern lands of Men. You have some interesting travels ahead of you, Ranger."

Aragorn - nay, he must start thinking of himself as Thorongil again - was gleeful at the prospect. "Thank you, my Lady."

"And Legolas."

Legolas stepped forward, feeling a little like an elfling summoned before his tutor. "Yes, my Lady."

"I have exchanged messengers with your Father. He looks forward to your immediate return to his Halls." Legolas bit back a smile as he realized his father's message was likely to have been more than a little peremptory. Then he reached for Aragorn's hand, realizing sadly that this meant they would part ways very soon.

"I am most grateful to Elbereth that you have all suffered no lasting harm," said the Lady, and her image faded gradually from the water leaving naught but their own reflections.

Aragorn limped over to the bed, grimacing slightly at the Lady's last words. Gandalf followed him with his eyes, and rubbed the knob of his staff thoughtfully against his lower lip.

"Thorongil," he said suddenly.

"Aye, Gandalf."

"I will have you know that this is very poor form on my part. The Valar do not approve. But I cannot have you limping around half Middle Earth." The wizard thumped the end of his staff once into the ground. There were no lights or fireworks. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get up, get up!" Gandalf went on impatiently.

Thorongil rose to his feet and first walked a few steps entirely without pain, then ran to the Wizard and flung his arms around him. "Thank you, Gandalf!" he cried.

"Yes, yes, yes," the greybeard said fussily, disengaging himself. "You are a good boy; it is the least I could do. Now even if nobody else does, _I_ need to get some sleep. We depart at dawn tomorrow."

Silently the Elf and the Ranger set out a pair of rugs before the fire for themselves, yielding place of honour and the softest cushions for the wizard, who tutted greatly but accepted the favour. The animals having been fed and watered, the three of them settled for the night. Though Legolas and Thorongil lay apart at first, sometime in the night, when the wizard's snores rose as high as the smoke from the fire, Legolas insinuated himself into the Ranger's arms, and was pulled into a tight embrace.

Dawn came too quickly, with faint light and bitter chill. At Gandalf's insistence, they helped themselves to high boots and decadently warm coats of animal fur from Maglint's stock. Thorongil's half-voiced protest died upon his lips when he saw a quick flash from Gandalf's staff and heard the merry clink of numerous gold coins alighting upon the shelf at the entryway. "Satisfied?" grunted the wizard. Thorongil nodded his thanks. He was, after all, a great believer in honest commerce.

They took the long road, and slowly, Gandalf riding upon his lead mule, and Elf and Ranger together upon Brego. But still they reached the parting of the roads before the skittish winter sun quite disappeared. Gandalf developed a sudden fascination with the mountain scenery as the two dismounted to make their good-byes.

Thorongil drew his cloak around them both once more.

"Aragorn," started Legolas.

Thorongil hushed him. "It must be Thorongil from now on." Legolas nodded his acquiescence. "But one day," the Ranger went on, "one day you will announce me proudly to the world by my proper name." A smile curved the wizard's lips as the faint scent of Dúnedain foresight reached him on the bitter wind.

"We will meet again," said Legolas, resting his forehead against the Ranger's. "We will do all we can to accomplish it."

"I travel widely," replied Thorongil. "We will have many occasions, I am sure." By common consent, their lips met and they clung for a long minute.

"Stay well, my Ranger," whispered the Elf.

"And you also, _mîr-nín_ [my treasure]."

Legolas blinked the brightness from his eyes, then turned resolutely away, and began to run, swifter than the wind, along the top of the snow-covered road to his father's kingdom. He did not look back.

Gandalf drew his mule up beside Thorongil and patted him gruffly on the shoulder. "Let's get these precious treasures delivered back to their owners then, lad," he said.

Aragorn's eyes were fixed on the small, swift dot approaching the confines of the forest. At length he replied, with a small sigh, "I think we have already delivered the most precious."

 _finis_  
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